


King Hound: The Iron Crown

by roomsky



Series: King Hound [1]
Category: Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9162784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomsky/pseuds/roomsky
Summary: Hjolmar is an outcast among his own people. The brutal and warlike Norsca, the chaos warriors of the north, have no love for the arts, or for fighting considered "dishonourable". Faced with dishonour before his Tribe, Hjolmar must leave everything he knows behind, and venture forth into a world ripe for the conquering.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of some lore I wrote up for a Warhammer Fantasy campaign I ran, but I hope anyone can enjoy it. I'm not sure what's up with the inconsistent indentation, seems to be a website thing, as it's all indented properly in my personal pdf.

**KING HOUND**

**Part 1: The Iron Crown**

 

 

 

 

_“The Blood God cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.”_

 

 

 

 

**HJOLMAR**

         

 

Hjolmar stared into the empty fighting pit below, waiting impatiently for the crowning to begin. He had never seen a crowning before, the last happening when he was only a babe. Of course, he didn’t know what a crowning was, but that only made him all the more curious. Now, at six, Hjolmar had noisily insisted he be in attendance, stating repeatedly that he was no longer too young to be denied anything. Too his partial surprise, his father had consented, though he wondered at the oddly sad tone Balnar had adopted at the time.

          Hjolmar waved his legs back and forth, rocking on the pine bleachers he sat on. He didn’t like these pine boards, they were hard on his rear and didn’t have anything to lean back on. He did like the squeaking noise they made as he rocked, however. Normally he was allowed to sit at his father’s side, in a seat that befit the son of a jarl. It had a back and some soft deer fur to sit on.

          The bleachers were alive with activity, most all of Kartak’s population crammed into the wooden arena’s uncomfortable seats. People everywhere were shouting over each other, and occasionally a fist fight would break out. Such things were common occurrence to the Bone-Splitters, however, so Hjolmar didn’t find any of it very interesting.

          He tried a few times to talk to Joric, who sat quietly beside him, but he was drowned out by those arguing around them. Joric was his age, exactly, born on the same day six winters past. Vitki Kel had said it would mean a tighter bond between them, which Hjolmar guessed meant they would be best friends. Kel’s prophecy had certainly come true, and Hjolmar couldn’t remember a day when the two wouldn’t play together, charging at each other with wooden swords in a game of ‘Lowland Raid’. Joric had smooth skin and thick reddish-brown hair, which hung messily over his face, and was frequently speckled with fresh snowfall. He was quiet compared to the other kids, but Hjolmar didn’t mind, _he_ had lots to say.

          The two sat with Erva, Joric’s mother, a hard woman of thirty-eight, though she was already gray. Joric’s father had died before he was born, lost in battle against the Slaaneshi tribes of the further north. Erva said she had to be the father because of that, and spent most of her time scowling and yelling. Joric and Hjolmar would sometimes joke that their parents should marry, because they both liked to shout, and both had lost their spouses several winters ago.

          The crowd’s roar turned into a dull murmur as six of the Jarl’s honour-kin marched into the fighting pit below, their prisoner bound and walking between them. Sverig Bladkar was Hjolmar’s uncle, and one of the few people who could make his father laugh. Balnar and Sverig would often meet before and after anything from a raid to a feast, challenging each other over who could collect the most Nordling heads, or who could drink the most ale before throwing up. Hjolmar had liked him too, he would often bring treats after coming back from a long raid, Nordling food made with something called “sugar,” and he would tell Hjolmar funny stories whenever Balnar got angry with him. He looked strange now, out of his armour and with his long graying hair cut short. He stared solemnly at his own feet.

          “Why is Uncle Sverig tied up?” He asked for what felt like the hundredth time in the past week. Perhaps someone would even answer him this time.

          “Quiet, little jarl.” Erva whispered to him, wearing her usual scowl. Hjolmar hated it when she called him “little jarl.” He had seen six winters, he wasn’t little anymore. She cracked a rare smile whenever he tried to explain this to her, which made him even angrier. “Quiet, and listen.”

          Balnar Mordvikskjal stood from his throne, a menacing thing carved from the skull of a mammoth, the creature’s tusks jutting out from either side. He was a beast of a man, standing taller than any of his peers, and in most cases, wider too. He wore a cloak of bearskin, fluttering in the northern winds in tandem with his ruddy blonde hair. Bone ornaments kept his lengthy beard split into three points which rested almost below his navel.

          “Sverig, son of Grolf, once called Bladkar, now disgraced before your kin.” Hjolmar thought his father sounded strange, like he was reciting something he hadn’t practised for very long, and his voice had the same odd sadness it had possessed earlier. “You are guilty of colluding with lowlanders, speaking to them as equals, trading with them their useless metals, and laying with women unearned by raid. For this you are sentenced to receive…” Balnar made a strange face, like there was meat caught in his throat. “… The Iron Crown.”

          Balnar turned away from his brother, his enormous fists bunched at his sides. Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Vitki Kel rose from his seat at Balnar’s right hand. If the grays were old, Kel was the gray of grays. He moved with a slight tremor, and his skin hung from his still impressive muscle in wrinkled folds. He was missing many of his teeth, and stared at the world through infected, pink eyes. He was a vitki, a seer, and he guided the Bone-Splitters on spiritual matters, offering council on the will of the Gods. He kept a staff clutched firmly in his right hand, and wore a dusty cloak of raven feathers on his back, and the skull of a ram on his head. “Have you requests before your death, Sverig?” He said in a low rasp.

          Sverig looked up from the ground for the first time since his arrival. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a long time. “Only to know if it was really my brother who decided I should die without a sword in my hand.”

          Balnar did not turn to face his brother, and said nothing. His fists were still bunched tight.

          “I see.” Sverig said flatly.

          Balnar’s Honour-kin suddenly took Sverig by the shoulders, forcing him to his knees and locking his limbs in place. Hjolmar could no longer contain his confusion, and leapt to his feet. Before he could take more than a few steps, Erva’s arms closed around him. “Let go of me!” He shouted, flailing fruitlessly. “I’m the son of the jarl! They can’t hurt uncle Sverig!”

          He screamed as she hoisted him off the ground. “No, little jarl, your father told me you had to see this. It’s something you need to learn if you’re going to lead us one day.” Her voice was more tender than usual, like she pitied him. He continued to swing his balled fists and kick at her torso, but with no avail.

          Balnar’s personal blacksmith came through the fighting pit’s other entrance, and laid out a ring of iron and several bolts before him, and took his hammer in hand. Kel began to speak again. “Behold the fate of those who would rather die with a crown on their brow over a sword in their hand. Sverig has chosen the shallow wealth of the lowlanders over his honour. And so he shall be crowned like a lowlander.”

          When the first bolt was hammered into Sverig’s skull, Hjolmar stopped screaming. He had never heard a man die like his uncle did that day. Later, when they hung his corpse on the great pine at the centre of town, he could only think of that horrible scream whenever he looked up to see his body dangling in the wind, being slowly picked apart by hungry ravens.

…

          The thought of his uncle’s death came back to Hjolmar many times over the years. Today, preparing to step into the arena Sverig had died in, though for a very different reason, he found himself unable to put it from his mind.

          The Bloodletting was a right all the Bone-Splitter’s warriors must perform. Young or old, man or woman, any who sought the glory of battle would do so before the tribe. They would be pitted against a hardened warrior, often one of advance years. This was to ensure the tribe remained strong, despite the low success rate of initiates. Each generation was meant to surpass the old, in a grand display for all to see. If you were found lacking, then your death was necessary, and your name unworthy. To deny The Bloodletting was to deny the right to be a warrior.

          Hjolmar assured himself he would not be left wanting. He was the sole son of the jarl, he had spent his seventeen winters in preparation for this day.

          “Nervous?” Joric jabbed as he applied Hjolmar’s armour. Joric had changed much over his most recent eleven winters. His smooth skin had given way to uneven scarring, the promise of attractiveness in youth long vanished. He had also lost his shy personality, now prepared to make some jape at every opportunity, and regardless of the situation.

          “Only nervous that I’ll put on as shameful a display as you.” Hjolmar said with an irritated smile. Hjolmar had grown tall and lithe, the vibrant blonde hair he had shared with his mother flowing down his back in wavy strands.

          “Hey, I won didn’t I?” Joric retorted.

          “Against _Ponbar the Old_. I’m surprised he didn’t keel over on the way to the match.”

          The attire for The Bloodletting was standardized: leather bracers, greaves and boots with a scaled cuirass. Joric and Hjolmar were of similar size, and new armour could not be tanned for each new combatant; and so Hjolmar now found himself fastened with the same straps he had tightened for Joric the week prior. He ran his hand along the lengthy gash through the front of the scale, unpatched from the previous battle.

          “This in particular is a sign of your great skill.” Hjolmar continued, gesturing at the deep cut.

          “Hey, the old man was quicker than he looked, alright? Besides, it’s not like I assign the armour.” He gave a leather strap a violent tug. “I can do my best to ‘sabotage’ you if you like, though, _your highness_.” He said with a wicked grin.

          “I swear by The Four, Joric, when I’m Jarl I’ll have one of your digits pulled every time you call me that.” Hjolmar regretted the day he taught Joric a fleeting amount of Reikspiel, as their fanciful word for “jarl” had been the only thing he had managed to remember. And it certainly didn’t help banish the memories of his uncle’s grisly death.

          “Best get it out of my system now then, eh?” Joric said, seemingly oblivious to Hjolmar’s discomfort. He gave a final pull before patting Hjolmar on the shoulder. “Good luck out there, Hjol. Don’t go dying on me yet.”

          Hjolmar applied as much sincerity to his voice as he could muster. “Thanks, Joric.”

…

          Hjolmar stepped into the pit centering the deep-brown monstrosity of poor design and dangerous instability that was the arena. Wooden beams criss-crossed beneath its pinewood bleachers, and the steps creaked unnervingly with every use. Banners flying the symbol of the roaring bear, the crest of Hjolmar’s father and thus the clan, tugged at the fastenings as the north’s perpetual winds whistled by. Yet somehow, the arena endured, and was the centre of Norscan life. Every sundown some event would take place, be it a practice bout, a fight to the death, or some public reprimand. More popular than any of these was a Bloodletting, and the bleachers now held Kartak’s near total population.

Hjolmar was deaf to the usual crunch of snow beneath his boots as he approached his starting position. The roar of men, women and babes drowned out even the northern winds, a raucous celebration of the two entering combatants. In the stand’s centre sat Balnar, his back stiff against his throne. Balnar was deep into his graying, but still dwarfed those around him, apparently free from the hunch age brought many seasoned warriors. He was staring directly at Hjolmar, apparently the only attendee abstaining from a cheer.

          _How very like him_ , thought Hjolmar.

          At his father’s side sat Kel, seemingly unchanged by the last decade. His clawed hands were no less rigid, his pink eyes no less intense. Even his cloak of raven feathers seemed to retain the same level of dustiness.

          Hjolmar turned his attention to his opponent, who stood his opposite. The man was called only Tolb. Despite a lifetime of glory-seeking, he had attained precisely none, leaving his name conspicuously without title. He was exactly the sort of man who would volunteer to face the son of a jarl, hungry for the accompanying prestige victory would bring. If Tolb hadn’t been a total arse to everyone he’d ever met, Hjolmar might have even felt bad for sending him to The Gods without such accomplishment.

          Balnar raised his hands in a call for silence, one the crowd quickly heeded. He stood, trappings of bones and steel jingling in the frigid air. “In accordance with the old ways, it is time for the new blood to prove its worth. Hjolmar, son of Balnar shall face Tolb, son of Kragenn.” The traditional words sounded strange coming from him, his gravelly voice did not suit them well, even after years of recitation. “May The Four give strength to the combatant most worthy of The Bone-Splitters.”

          A war horn blared, signaling the beginning of the bout. Hjolmar drew his blade, a worn thing made of the same tempered steel that comprised Tolb’s axe. He gave his blade a playful spin. It was well balanced, and felt good in his hands.

          Hjolmar spread his arms wide in mocking challenge. “How bold you are, Tolb, to volunteer against the son of a jarl!”

          The two began to circle each other, slowly closing distance. “Aye, I did. And I’ll say what everyone else won’t, Hjolmar _Sword-Dancer_.” Hjolmar grimaced at the name. His title, _Vorkjal_ , was as much an honor as it was an insult. It meant master of weapons, if one were to be blunt. But there was meaning there, a connotation of frailty and grace. Not the associations a warrior would hope for. “You talk like a lowlander, and you _fight_ like a lowlander. Hell, I see you reading Kel’s books more than I see you practicing your swing. I doubt you’ll be much harder to kill than-“

          Hjolmar punched forward with the tip of his sword, a blow Tolb barely managed to deflect in time, turning the lethal strike into a shallow cut across his left cheek. Tolb staggered backwards.

          “And you fight like a coward, too,” he finished.

          “Says the man who criticized me for running my mouth, when his leaves him quite-” Tolb ran forward with a lunging slash, a terribly sluggish maneuver. Their blades gave a loud clang as their cutting edges met. “-open,” Hjolmar finished, his smile returned.

          Hjolmar delivered a kick to Tolb’s sides, a loud crack signaling one or more broken ribs. To his credit, Tolb didn’t drop his guard as expected, and instead pushed himself backwards before coming in with another strike.

          The arena was filled with the clatter of steel on steel as Tolb pressed his attack. His movements were telegraphed and easily parried, though he left few openings, even with his broken bones. Perhaps this was why he had lived for so long without distinction. Even so, Hjolmar wouldn’t win any favor by remaining defensive.

          He feigned dropping his guard, leaving his head exposed. Tolb quickly seized the opportunity for a lunging strike, driving his axe towards Hjolmar’s face. He threw himself to the side, Tolb’s blade severing a lock of his fluttering hair, and rammed his blade into the unarmored gap beneath his arm.

          The watching crowd gave a collective jeer as they saw the bloody tip of his sword come up through Tolb’s collar. Most Bloodlettings were a much more extended affair, with both combatants heavily wounded by the end, but this had finished the same as any of Hjolmar’s victories. He had always been told that natural talent was nothing to be proud of, that it hadn’t been earned. He knew as well as they that their words had done nothing to stop his inflated ego.

          Hjolmar was so satisfied with his decisive victory that he utterly failed to block a sudden backhand to the face, sending him tumbling across the snowy earth. He quickly caught his balance and rolled back into a stand. He reached for his sword, but his hand grasped nothing but fresh snow. He looked up to see his sword still wedged through Tolb’s torso.

          His opponent swayed, struggling to keep his footing through the blood loss. Hjolmar was surprised, the strike should have killed him nearly instantly. The impaled warrior toppled forward, and landed on all fours, shivering from the pain. It looked as though he was about to expire. His neck suddenly tensed and his head jerked upwards. He growled through bared teeth, bloody spittle glazing his mouth. His eyes were wide, and filled with unstifled fury.

          The crowd roared. “ _Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt_!” They chanted, each syllable accompanied by a fist thrusted into the air.

_Rauðrdikt_. The bloody verse. As was tradition to the Bone-splitters, any combatant could opt to embrace their inner beast and abandon their weapons. This challenge could not be denied, and both combatants would embrace their berserker rage and engage in a test purely of strength and savagery.

          It was unfortunate for Hjolmar that he was one of the only few born in the last century who seemed unable to tap into that trait.

          “What good is a bear who cannot use his claws?” his father would often say, as though Hjolmar was actively spiting him with his inability. Vitki Kel had asserted that he simply needed to be put in a life-or-death situation to bring out the beast within. Hjolmar hoped he was right.

          Tolb rocketed forward, closing the gap in barely two leaps, and displaying speed far greater than when he was without a sword jammed through his ribcage.

          Hjolmar panicked. Certainly, he’d trained for the situations where an opponent would attack with an aggressive flurry, with little regard for their own well-being. It was simply that he’d always had a sword in his hand during that practice.

          He had only begun to raise his arms in defense before Tolb collided with him, sending the two tumbling through the snowy dirt. Hjolmar landed on his back with a grunt, and barely had enough time to react to before Tolb leapt onto his torso, his weight punching the wind from Hjolmar’s lungs. He crossed his forearms over his face, which Tolb angrily mashed at with balled fists. Every strike was accompanied by an animalistic growl and a trail of spittle flying from his bared teeth.

          Hjolmar hammered his fist onto Tolb’s wounded side, but apart from a grunt of pain, he failed to react. Tolb gave an animal snarl and delivered a flurry of blows into his half-exposed face. The first punch broke his nose, causing Hjolmar to yelp in pain. The next was to his now open mouth, cutting his lips on parted teeth.

          The next several strikes mangled Hjolmar’s untarnished face into a bloody mess of bruised flesh. He delivered more failed strikes to Tolb’s sides, and he felt his consciousness beginning to slip. Each blow felt duller, the crack of his fist on bone blurring as blood pounded in his ears.

          He thought again of his uncle, a strangely clear image amidst the hail of blows against his numbing face. He had visited the tree alone once, to watch the birds peck at his dead flesh. Some of the other boys were laughing at his dangling corpse, saying that his death was pitiful for such a great warrior.

          Hjolmar vowed he would not meet the same fate.

          He reached for the knife in his boot, hidden there before the match. Not even Joric had known he had smuggled it into the ring; possessing more than a single weapon was expressly forbidden. Now, faced with disgrace in death and a disgrace in life, Hjolmar found the second option infinitely preferable.

          He shot his arms forward, intertwining them with his opponent’s. Tolb was immobilized for the split second Hjolmar needed to bash his blood-slick forehead into his attacker’s nose. The berserker howled and clutched his bleeding face.

          Hjolmar smiled through shattered teeth. _He certainly felt that one._

          His head was swimming from the impact, but he managed to twist his body sideway and bend his leg back to his waiting hand. Tolb, already recovering, ducked forward and gnashed his teeth at Hjolmar’s exposed jugular. His limbs were slick with blood, and he struggled to keep his forearm across Tolb’s throat. His grasping fingers finally found his dagger, and he rammed the blade into Tolb’s temple an instant before his teeth found Hjolmar’s exposed neck, sending a fresh blood splatter across the already reddened snow.

          The berserker shuddered before falling forwards, his corpse landing limply on the arena floor. Hjolmar breathed out, finally letting fatigue fill his bruised limbs. The cold air had never felt better on his raw skin.

          The crowd looked on in stunned silence.

**JORIC**

 

 

_“Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt!”_

          Joric watched in horror as Tolb writhed and snarled like a frenzied wolf, gnashing his teeth and pounding the dirt. The sword that should have ended the bout protruded from his side, miraculously failing to end his life. _Rauðrdikt_ had always been a possibility, Hjolmar knew the tribes’ traditions better than most, much as he liked to ignore them, and the bloody verse was no great secret.

          He had planned to kill his enemy before one could be initiated, however.

          Kerrig Bloodhammer leaned in behind him. “Looks like your friend’s about to get what he deserves for being such a lowland sheep.”

          Despite being a similar age, Kerrig had distinguished himself even before his own Bloodletting. He had killed one of Jarl Kreg’s many sons, each one famous for their swordplay, when they had raided the Bone-Splitter camp two years prior. He drove a warhammer straight through the man’s parry and into his skull, and afterwards never failed to espouse the effectiveness of blunt weapons over swords. Irritatingly, his peers latched on to his every word, praising his vast cunning and stunning good looks. Joric preferred the arrogant when they weren’t the envy of the clan.

          “He’s a better fighter than you’ll ever be, Kerrig.” The one who spoke out was Valka, a girl of nineteen winters with a bloodlust to rival any Khornate champion, and a temper to match. After breaking the arms, ribs, and legs of a group of boys harassing Hjolmar over his dead uncle, she had become one of their few genuine friends. Reddy-blonde hair fell haphazard across her brow, and her soft features contrasted with her large frame and imposing stature. Deep scars ran criss-cross over most of her exposed skin. “He’d gut you like a fangless pup.”

          “Ah yes, he is mighty. See how he pummels his foe.” Kerrig responded, gesturing to the arena floor.

          The two looked back to see Tolb hammering his fists into Hjolmar’s face, the man’s own punches deflecting ineffectually off his opponent’s flank.

           Joric stood, attracting a few brief stares. “We have to do something. He’s going to be killed.”

           “Good riddance I say.” Kerrig chimed in, feigning disinterest. “He’s fights like a lowlander and everyone knows it. Better he die here than disgrace us on the battlefield.”

           “Death! Death! Death!” The stands erupted in their death chant, glee written plainly across their faces.

          “Seems they agree,” he finished.

          Valka reached for her axe, but Joric was faster, spinning on his heel and driving his fist into Kerrig’s face. Were he not mortified about Hjolmar’s impending death, he might have been satisfied with the crunching sound his nose made upon breaking. Despite the man’s popularity, no one seemed to notice him tumble backwards through the stands, save the people he landed on.

          The crowd suddenly ceased its cheering, the speed at which they halted was unnervingly rapid. For a moment, Joric thought they had reacted to his violent outburst. He turned to see that was not the case.

…

          Hjolmar was taken to Kel’s hut after the fighting, a journey he miraculously survived. While severe, Hjolmar’s wounds weren’t what Joric worried about. The spectators had mixed reactions to Hjolmar’s manner of victory; there was much disagreement as to how exactly he should be killed for defiling their most sacred of traditions.

          Their suggestions had ranged from horrifying to ridiculous, one aging woman even demanding he be fed to “savage wild goats.” Joric laughed at that, despite himself.

          Kel’s hut was a small walk from even the outermost longhouses, sitting atop a cliffside overlooking the freezing seas below, and was adorned with all manner of spiritual trappings and fetishes. Severed skin, bleached bones, and animal carcasses all hung limply in the perpetual winds, frost clinging to their dead flesh.

          Joric had never liked Kel, nor his homestead. The Bone-Splitters were a southern tribe, bordering the Sea of Chaos, and thus were less prone to the morbidity of the northernmost villages. Kel, it seemed, was always finding new ways to match their grotesqueries.

          Joric and Valka ascended the hill to the hut, surprised to find a lack of angry mobs on their way. The path was as barren as it always was, and two guardsmen outside Kel’s hut were the only signal anything was out of place at all.

          Joric had often heard that lowlanders would use a word to greet each other, something he always found oddly superfluous. Surely a vocal announcement of one’s arrival wasn’t necessary when it could be plainly observed. Joric and Valka came face to face with the guards, hands resting on the pommels of their weapons. The guards did the same, to not do so was a sign of great trust, or extreme disrespect.

          The guard on the left, a warrior with bright blond hair pulled into braids and leathery sun-tanned skin, spoke first. “No entry, Jarl’s orders. We’ve already driven off a group of punks looking for this one’s head.” He nodded to several flecks of blood dotting the snow at their feet.

          “We’re not here to kill him.” Joric responded, making his best attempt at diplomacy. “The stupid bastard’s our friend, we want to see him.”

          The blond warrior gave an undisguised sneer, while his partner, barely older than Joric, kept a neutral expression in his silence. Still, there was something unsettling about him, and his eyes bulged unnervingly from beneath an unkempt mop of brown hair.

          “Well, were it up to me,” the blonde one continued, “I’d let `em gut the coward. I’ll never know how a warrior like Jarl Balnar produced _that_ as a son. Maybe his craven uncle fucked his mother while the Jarl was on the shitter. Either way, no entry.”

          Joric was about to retort, but it was Valka’s turn to chime in. “Oh, by The Four! He won didn’t he! What’s Kel always on about? ‘ _The Blood God cares not from whence it flows, only that it flows?’_ Well, a lot of blood’s running from Tolb’s opened head now, isn’t it?” Her voice growled with undisguised vitriol.

          “Aye, through cowardly fighting. _Rauðrdikt_ is our most sacred tribute to the Blood God, to defy it is to deserve his ire. And with it comes our own. You dishonor your namesake by decrying it, Valka.”

          Valka bristled at the comment, and looked as though she was about to bury her axe into the man’s face. Such an outburst was mercifully interrupted by Kel’s response from within the tent.

          “Let them in, Gunnr.” His voice was a dry rasp, but rang clearer than the howling winds or any of the individuals outside.

          Gunnr gave a brief look of panic before responding with an irritated grunt, stepping away from the entrance flap. His silent partner mirrored his movements. Gunnr shot them a venomous glare as they entered, a gesture Joric returned with a mocking grin.

          The interior of Kel’s homestead were no more inviting than outside, featuring similar decorations and trophies. Hjolmar was lying in a bed by the far wall, with Kel applying a salve to what little of his face was not concealed by bloodied bandages. Kel was ancient, even by the standards of lowlanders who preferred to spend their twilight years as feeble corpses. Joric was never able to figure exactly how old the Vitki was, and he doubted even Hjolmar knew, despite the frequent visits to the seer’s library.

          Kel regarded them briefly as they entered, his unsettling pink eyes boring into them, pink pools dotted with pinpricks of black. Joric had always found them his most unsettling feature, seemingly devoid of irises, and rarely, if ever, blinking. Joric’s dislike of the man was compounded by his behavior; for all the tribes’ talk of honour and glorious battle, Kel seemed content to spend his days doing little more than sitting around and providing obtuse wisdom. That and occasionally demanding the grisly execution of anyone unfortunate enough to be deemed in opposition to the Gods.

          He returned to his work, and withdrew from Hjolmar after adding a final smear of crushed herbs across his brow, gesturing for Joric and Valka to be seated.

          “By Kho- erhm, _by The Four_ , Hjol, I think you look worse than when they dragged you from the arena.”

          Hjolmar gave them a toothy smile. It was a miracle he retained all of his teeth, though a few were markedly less even than before. “Least I still don’t have your mug, Joric. Any beating you take could only make you more handsome.”

          “Don’t be so proud of yourself yet, Hjol,” Valka retorted. “`Whole village wants your head on a pike.”

          “She is correct, Hjolmar,” Kel added. “Were it not for my intervention, you would be dead. And without my present protection, the five who came for you earlier would have made much sport killing you.”

          “And why not you, Vitki? I defiled sacred tradition, and I failed to embrace the berserker rage. Do the laws of the Bone-Splitters not call for my death?” He asked the question almost jokingly, a thin veil for the spite clear in his voice. Hjolmar had never appreciated the limits tradition had placed on him. Kel’s face darkened at his flippancy.

          “If you had payed attention to what you have read about the Tribe’s traditions, Hjolmar, you would know that the Bloodletting is not merely a test of strength. It is where The Gods make their will known, where they weigh the worth of each combatant, and judge who is more worthy to carry on. And yet, despite your disregard for tradition, despite your failure to embrace the beast within, you are alive. The Four have chosen you, in spite of your failings; in some way your spiting our traditions has appealed to their mercurial natures, and for that, you must live.”

          “Most don’t seem to agree.” Joric responded.

          “I care little for their agreement, Joric. My service is first to The Gods. I will not allow Hjolmar to be lynched.” He tapped his staff on the floor at “ _lynched_ ,” and stood from his seat.

          Hjolmar’s usual pride seemed to drain from his face. “So… my father did not insist on my survival?”

          Joric had never felt a silence so awkward. “Err, well. I’m sure he’s happy that you-“

          “He wishes to give you an Iron Crown, Hjolmar. Perhaps that will help you appreciate the gravity of the situation.” Kel interrupted.

          Hjolmar’s face bleached, and he became very still.

Joric’s heart sank. Balnar had sentenced his own brother to the same fate years ago, and he seemed to have more love for Sverig than he ever did for his son. Still, he couldn’t comprehend a parent demanding such a fate of their own child.

          As if summoned by his mention, Jarl Balnar stormed into the tent, fists balled and face contorted into a severe grimace. He barely gave Joric and Valka a glance.

“Leave us,” he said through gritted teeth.

          “You can’t just-” Valka began, but was cut off by Balnar backhanding her across the face. His enormous bulk gave him more than enough force to send her not diminutive frame careening into the nearest wall. She smashed into a wall shelf, sending a shower various trinkets cascading onto the floor. She bared her teeth and clutched what was left of the shelf to the point of splintering the wood further, but remained where she had fallen.

          “Leave us.” He repeated.

          Kel gave them a nod of permission, and they did as instructed.

…

          Joric later found Hjolmar by the docks, staring across the turbulent sea. Valka had wandered to the fighting pits, craving blood. Jarl or not, that blow to the face would have her livid for hours.

The same guards regarded him briefly as he went to his friend, still bandaged and bloody. The usual energy Hjolmar carried himself with was entirely absent, and he gazed at the white-capped waves with slack shoulders and a deep slouch.

          “Here I was preparing a flaming boat for you, Hjol. Once again you ruin my elaborate funerary plans.”

          “He really hates me.” Hjolmar said with a sad smile, ignoring Joric’s attempt at levity. His eyes looked raw. “I thought maybe… maybe he was like everyone else’s father. Gruff, demanding, but with love underneath.” He was clearly straining to maintain any sort of composure. It was one failure Joric would not jab him for.

          “I’m being sent away, Jor. I get to helm my own ship, isn’t that exciting? A chance for me to redeem myself, Kel says. I’ll even get a crew, and Kel too. He insisted. ‘Too old to live up here’, better to die with a sword in his gut, he says. It seems being a disgrace comes with all sorts of perks these days. Of course, the livery and sigils must be stripped away, can’t have me bringing more shame to the tribe, can we?”

          “Hjol…”

          “And do you know how he responded? My father?” He was standing now, pontificating. “He looked scared. Horrified! What a sight it was, seeing his face pale with fear for the first time. Oh, what a horrible fate it must be! To be denied the one legitimate chance to murder your disappointing offspring! To have to live with the idea that he may be out there somewhere, making a name for himself! How dare he! How dare he be born unable to gibber and snarl like a filthy animal!”

          They stood in silence for a moment, Hjolmar frozen in his final, sweeping gesture. He quickly returned to his slouch with a grunt. “I’m sorry, Jor. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

          Joric searched for how to respond, a strange feeling, as he usually just spoke without thinking. Not that he had any problem with how that usually went. He looked at Hjolmar with the utmost sincerity.

          “Well, Hjol, that was an unforgivable outburst. I doubt our friendship could ever recover. Unless, of course, I am allowed to be your first mate on this oh-so shameful voyage. Then I _just_ may begin to forgive you.”

          “Jor, you don’t have to-“

          “Don’t give me that shit, Hjol! Where you go, I go, and vice versa. Valka too, were she here. She’d also be kicking the piss out of you for your little mopey display! So what if your dad’s a cunt! Fuck him! And fuck these people! You want to impress the Blood God? Then kill. Kill and murder and slaughter your way through the Nordlings until he has to pay attention.”

          Once again, a pregnant silence descended. With uncanny synchrony, they both sat back on the decks and stared off into the ocean. 

“Besides, who’s gonna miss me?” he continued. “Alas poor Joric, I knew him well and so forth. I mean, if it please you, _your highness_.”

“I swear to The Four, I will throw you overboard.”

 

**HJOLMAR**

         

 

A sunrise in the southern chaos wastes was always a sight to behold. The tumultuous sky would briefly give way to the soft orange glow of the nearby star, framing snowdrifts in red and blue pastel. For all their value on beauty and art, Hjolmar doubted the lowlanders would ever earn the chance to view such a spectacle.

          As he approached the longship that would forever carry him from his home, he found himself admiring the phenomenon, despite how mundane it had seemed mere days ago.

          The _Hafgala_ was one of the fleets more impressive ships. It was one of the few to feature a lower deck, and had a series of modest cabins towards the stern. Sixty rowers were required for any controlled movement, all of which were taken from the most recent group of slaves captured from the Nordling’s empire. The roaring bear-head that had once adorned its prow had been crudely defaced the night before, leaving only a splintered hunk of wood protruded from the ship’s front.

          The _Hafgala’s_ passengers were similarly defaced. Crests were removed, identifying trinkets were severed, and tattoos were mutilated or burned. They had become ghosts. No family, no life before their exile.

          They were the Exiled Warband, the ghosts of the north. A gang of marauders who had no identity, their sole purpose to regain their lost honour through death in glorious battle.

          Hjolmar had his own plans, however. His was not some ignoble death to be forgotten by history. His sadness had quickly been replaced by anger, a burning passion to become more than his bastard father ever was. The world would not forget the Exiled Warband, he vowed. The world would not forget Hjolmar Vorkjal.

          Those accompanying him into the lowlands had either volunteered or were criminals, given the choice between disgrace and death. Death was a rather uncommon choice, even among the Norsca.

          Thus far, Joric and Valka had been the only volunteers. Joric’s mother had made a gaudy display of disowning him as he ascended the ramp, alternating between shouting obscenities and weeping to the sky, asking why the Gods had tormented her so. Valka’s family simply failed to show up. Whatever Joric truly felt about leaving his home and mother, it was hidden underneath some off-colour joke, same as always. Valka, by contrast, remained stoic, but was somehow even quieter than usual.

The lack of enthusiasm did not surprise Hjolmar, but he held onto the small hope that perhaps some secret admirer would make themselves known.

          He had to admit: he hadn’t expected his hopes to come true.

          It was halfway through the embarking preparations when Olavi Lone-son approached the _Hafgala_ , with nine armed and armored in tow. Olavi was the youngest patriarch in the clan, his father and brother had been killed during a raid against the Half-Jaws a year prior. He was soft-spoken and low in stature, with a pale face and matted brown hair. He had a fish-eyed stare, pale globes jutting strangely from his face. His father’s cloak, fastened with their family symbol of an eagle’s talons, hung loosely from his shoulders, the fur collar sitting comically large about his head.

          He ascended the ramp to the ship’s edge, with no declaration of intent or even an acknowledgment of those who were waiting for him. Kel raised a hand to halt him before he stepped on board.

          “You are the last of your clan, Olavi, to board this ship is to end your bloodline. You have a responsibility to your house to...”

          Olavi was already unfastening the oversized cloak, clearly paying Kel no mind. He folded it in half before dropping it into the freezing waters below. His gaze ventured to Hjolmar for an uncomfortably long moment before he proceeded wordlessly onto the ship and below deck, his armed retinue of vaguely familiar peers in tow. Kel looked equal parts annoyed and confused.

          “Charming fellow.” Joric observed aloud.

…

          The final crewmembers were the criminals of the various tribes settled in the area. Short of the dreaded Iron Crown, executions were all but unheard of. Those sentenced to death for theft, murder, or gang violence would meet their fate in a public display of combat. Those who joined an Exiled Warband were the warriors who either had not yet had their trial, or had an inconvenient tendency of refusing to die in the arena.

          They arrived in a group, bound at the wrists and escorted by warriors of the neighboring tribes. Most prominent among them was Nor Blackhand, a freakishly large warrior who preferred to raid fellow Norsca over lowland villages. Tribal disputes were common, but Nor displayed no clan heraldry, and fought for no besmirched honor or offended custom. He had always made it abundantly clear that he simply enjoyed it.

          He came slowly up the ramp, his manacles jingling with each step. Most men had merely been tied at the wrists, but his retainers had opted instead for some forged metal cuffs stolen from some Imperial smithy. That they would even make use of a Nordling’s tools spoke of the necessity.

          He briefly regarded Hjolmar and his retinue in passing. His expression was anything but serious, and spoke of a man whose default mood was one of sadistic amusement. He was poorly shaven, his dark hair the same uneven stubble as his beard, and disturbingly few scars mired his tanned skin. He turned away silently, proceeding to Kel, who was unbinding the prisoners one by one. They parted for Nor’s advance.

…

          They were sailing for one of the many small islands that dotted the Empire’s coasts, a journey that would take just over a week, if the winds favored them. While there were a few stores of salted fish and other meats kept below deck, this meant that they didn’t have to worry about the food going bad before their arrival. Anything afterwards would simply be taken from those they raided.

          Boiled and spiced meats with freshly harvested winter berries were ready to eat, with plentiful mead as well. Hjolmar assumed that in most cases, this was meant to be something of a last meal. Typical of Norsca tradition, a mere single meal would not suffice.

          Hjolmar, Valka and Joric sat in their cabin, shared out of necessity. While the Hafgala was large, it was nowhere near the size required to give even thirty-odd men much privacy. Kel alone was given his own cabin, no doubt now stacked with the books and trinkets he had opted to take with him.

          The three ate sitting in their beds, using a storage chest as a makeshift table. They ate slowly, chatting the hours away with tales of better days.

          “So, how do you think you’ll die?” Joric asked the two of them after a lengthy tangent about the non-existent carnivorous capabilities of goats. He took a brief swig of mead while he waited for a response.

          “I don’t plan to.” Hjolmar replied. “This isn’t so different from any other raid. We just don’t go home in between.”

          “I don’t know Hjol.” Joric responded, affecting seriousness. He hunched over and put on his best gravelly voice. “The Gods will be displeased. Two traditions stamped on in less than a month. Slaaneshi hell for you!”

          Hjolmar nearly spit out his drink. Joric continued to wave his arms about, casting fictitious spells and curses. Even Valka seemed amused, a rarity for her.

          When he was done, Joric asked again. “Okay, fine. Maybe you don’t die in our little suicide run. Maybe you die in ten years or two-hundred. The question stands, how do you think you’ll go?”

          “Killing my enemies.” Valka said predictably. “There’ll be me, `top a mountain of dead bodies, and whatever bastard has the strength to put me down standing opposite. I’ll kill him too, `course, and Khorne’ll lift a glass of mead to the glory of it.”

          “Does Khorne drink mead?” Joric asked jokingly. “Always figured him more of an ale man.” He started into his second flagon of drink. “God” He corrected between gulps.

          “Knowing my luck I’ll die old and frustrated.” Hjolmar answered. “The Nordlings will send great warrior after warrior, and none will be good enough to slay me.” He took a sip of his own mead. “I’ll be denied a place at the side of the Gods because I was too damn good.”

          “More like someone’ll grab a lock of that golden hair of yours and pull you into an axe head.” Valka retorted. As was usual, whether or not she was sarcastic was a mystery.

          “Much as I’d like to say I’ll die quivering in the arms of some great beauty.” Joric began with a grin. “It’ll probably some muddy, ugly death. All drawn out like, lots of blood and cursing.”

          Everyone was silent for a moment.

          “Hey, keep your expectations low and you won’t be disappointed. You’re both gonna be so mad when some peasant boy trips you off a cliff or something.” Joric finished, grinning as he took another swig.

          Their discussion was interrupted by a brief knock on the door. “Enter!” Joric shouted in a deep, faux-authoritative voice before Hjolmar could say the same.

          Olavi Lone-son entered awkwardly, forcing himself through the open crack of the door which had gotten stuck on the table-chest. Joric did little to hide his amusement.

          “Hjolmar. Joric. Valka.” He said in an unexpectedly shrill voice, nodding as he went along. “Might I join you? Everywhere else is too crowded to sit.”

          “Be my guest.” Hjolmar responded, gesturing to the empty space beside Valka. He sat silently and began to eat, pealing the skin off of each berry and piece of meat with a dagger he produced from his coat, and chewing it separately. Silence hung in the room for a long moment, save for the sound of their eating.

          “So,” Hjolmar began, eager to break the awkward silence. “I thank you for joining our voyage, Olavi. I confess, though, that I barely know you. Why join our gang of ‘dead men?’”

          Olavi stared at him with his big, pale eyes, chewing slowly and silently on his present morsel. When he finally swallowed, he responded. “I was born the second son of my house, a position I enjoyed well. My father and brother loved me deeply, and I had no illusions about inheriting a position of any importance.” He spoke with a surprising amount of care, one often found lacking in Hjolmar’s kin. Even Joric was guilty of clipping his speech on occasion, as if language were some annoying barrier to get out of the way as quickly as possible.

“They were called great warriors, even by Balnar.” He continued, maintaining a near-monotone. “‘Quick as the wind’ they would call my brother, ‘surely he will grow gray before finding his equal.’ I enjoyed my freedom from responsibility, and was content in the knowledge that my position was unlikely to change.”

          Olavi’s expression turned to one of barely-disguised annoyance. “But then they _died_. Together, in the same battle against the Half-Jaws. And so I was left to carry their legacy.” He bit into another piece of fish. He continued before he was finished chewing. “It was a position I neither wanted nor had the time for. But, of course, tradition is important. It must be upheld. And so I did my duty, and resigned myself to the monotony of ceremonial feasts, councils in which I was ignored, and an allegedly high status which did not seem to grant me anything.”

          “Ah, running from responsibility.” Joric added, clearly unfazed by the man’s strange affect. “I would have done the same. I guess I sorta did. `Cept nobody cared what I did or said.” He took another drink.

          “An oversimplification.” Olavi said flatly. “I would not have left because of my frustration alone, much as I would have liked to. No, I was prepared to die living that monotony, bearing children with some woman I had no love for.” The longer Olavi carried on, the more Hjolmar wondered if the man had love for anyone.

“But then I saw your Bloodletting,” he continued. “You not only opposed the bonds of tradition, you broke them, wounded them. You _spited_ them. I wanted to see you before Balnar had you killed, so I volunteered to guard Kel’s hut while you recovered, hoping for an opportunity to speak of my admiration. I did not get my chance, but your friend,” he gestured to Valka with his dagger, “pushed me into epiphany. ‘ _The blood God cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows_ ’. As if to prove the point, you have been given command of a ship and crew, that and autonomy from the bounds of tradition. You have been rewarded for your defiance.”

“The Vitki is mistaken, Hjolmar. He knows no more about Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle or Slaanesh than a blind man knows about the colours of the sunrise. The gods are not mercurial; they are not fair, nor ill-tempered. They are simply cruel. Murder and pain are their currency. These are the ends they seek, they care not for the means.” He bit into another piece of fish, this time tearing it in half with his teeth.

“The slaves make fine sacrifices. I killed one this afternoon, to bring our voyage good fortune. He screamed for his comrades while I peeled his skin away, every unanswered cry of desperation a sweet song for the gods.” He flipped the knife in his gloved hands, catching it with the pommel facing Hjolmar. “Would you like me to show you how to perform sacrifice? I have found several tricks for removing the skin which you may find useful.” He asked with a smile. It contorted his face in a way that reminded Hjolmar of a gargoyle.

Hjolmar dropped his plate heavily on the table and stood. “Excuse me, I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

…

          “You seem distressed, Hjolmar.” Kel found him at the side of the ship, staring off into the empty horizon. Short of his last partner in conversation, Hjolmar couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather speak to less.

          “Well… no. No. Just thinking.” He said, his skilled oratory presently absent. He felt sick, and the night air chilled him more than it ever had in his life. He had no love for his tribes’ insistence of honourable fighting, nor was he unaccustomed to seeing the butchered dead. But even he saw a shallow capacity for toying with the enemy. Even he had a limit to the cruelty he would visit upon his foes.

          “Your uncle.” Kel asked suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts. “You were quite young when he died, if I recall. Do you remember him?”

          Hjolmar thought vividly of his dangling corpse, and his final screech of agony. Another sickening way to die. “No.” He lied. “Not well.”

          “He was much like you.” Kel said matter-of-factly, joining Hjolmar in staring at the turbulent sea. “He had great skill, charisma, and an unconventional outlook much as you did. It suited him well, for a time, but he did not know when to stop. He went too far into his own, misguided world, until he was consumed by it. Your father may be stubborn and short-sighted, but at least he understood his place.”

          Hjolmar was looking at him now, wondering how a man could be so tactless. Still he went on.

          “And do you know why your father was forced to kill him?” He turned and met Hjolmar’s gaze, staring with his swollen, infected eyes. “Do you?”

          “He laid with Lowlanders.” Hjolmar recited flatly. “He traded with Lowlanders. He broke bread with Lowlanders.”

          “Yes. And he did so because he forgot the will of the Gods. I warned him of his path, that they were growing weary of his fraternization. But he threw my warning back at my face. It was no surprise when Balnar sentenced him for what he had done.” He gazed away wistfully. “Such a shame. Truly a waste of potential”

          Hjolmar remained silent.

          Kel turned to leave. “Never forget the will of the Gods, Hjolmar, heed my words as your kin have not. Forget not Khorne, who above all demands we fight with honour and brutality. Lest you become the same debased ilk as your uncle.”

          Hjolmar was again alone, and considered what Kel had said, and moreso, what Olavi had become. Perhaps the path of Khorne would keep him safe from such sadism; or perhaps it would plunge him into it, had Olavi himself professed that he followed the Gods’ will as well?

          _No_ , he thought. _Kel knows their ways better than any of us. Perhaps he has a point. Perhaps he is worth heeding after all._

         

 

 

**RAGARIN**

         

 

“For Hror the Unyielding!” Stevik yelled happily, thrusting his mug of ale towards the ceiling.

          “For Hror!” Ragarin echoed alongside his fellow warriors, markedly less enthused than the rest. The barracks joined in after them, the synchrony of the cry now totally lost amidst the crowd of drunken Dwarves.

          Ragarin downed his ale in one gulp, excess dribbling down his deep brown beard and midnight black plate. He had promised Hror (and Stevik, and Zerk, and Mulkan) that he would try to enjoy his evening. It was an oath often made, and almost as often, one failed to be kept.

          Hror had killed yet another beast ravaging the inland cities. Always he took an oath before the king, to return with the creature’s head or not at all, and always he marched triumphantly back through the city gates, trophy in hand. _Is this what the Kol have been reduced to?_ Ragarin asked himself. _Glorified trappers, patted on the back by the populace for every minor accomplishment?_

Ragarin “Iron-Eye” Dreng, named so for the metal plate over a forcefully emptied eye-socket, was second in command of Mountainhearth’s armies, beneath only the king and Hror himself.

Ragarin had always appreciated the common perception of dwarves as good fighters, and it was true, as far as he was concerned. But while any dwarf was a good fighter, Dwarven warriors were unrelenting engines of violence, and Hror and his _Kol_ were the mightiest warriors from Hannesberg to the Bitter Coast. Each was armored in thick black plate, bearing a closer resemblance to a fortress than a Dwarf. Their plough-shaped helms concealed their entire heads, expressionless masks of the Mountain Throne’s executioners.

          At their head was Hror, “The Unyielding,” a hero of countless battles and skirmishes, his armor was a grand improvement on Ragarin’s and his comrades. Adorned with the blackened scales and horns of a dragon he had slain in his youth, and his great warhammer, _Uzkul_ , slung across his back. While Ragarin had grown bitter at the superficially noble duties they had adopted, his respect for his master had never waned.

          He noisily deposited his spent tankard onto the stone table, and walked away briskly as to avoid empty conversation. He soon found himself at the balcony, as he often did in recent years. The Barracks was a great obsidian tower, reaching nearly the roof of their underground city. Hearth fires and forges burned all across the streets below, their fumes carried through the immense iron tubes that ran through the roof of the mountain and into the sky beyond. The streets rose and converged, stone houses growing more extravagant as they neared the rocky ceiling. At eye level was the Seat of Kings, the great stone fortress that was the home of the Dwarven monarchy.

          Ragarin would often stare at the immense battlements, remembering the day they had become subservient.

          The Long War had ended. The Winged Lord was dead, murdered by his own son, and his elves had retreated to their city of trees. This was five years past, but Ragarin could remember his joy on the day his people had been delivered from the violent stalemate that had gripped them for over a hundred years. But their peace had been short lived, and no sooner did the Empire of Man arrive on Svarland’s rocky shores.

          Their first attack was with kind words, just like the elves. They claimed friendship, that they were allied with many Dwarven kingdoms, and that coming into the fold of the empire would see them grow and prosper. Ragarin spat over the side of the balcony. _Friendship_. Friendship unearned, friendship promised with a dagger behind their backs. When Grobi refused, they showed their true mettle, as did he.

          Ten warships, bigger than Ragarin had ever seen, waited off the coasts, with many more promised should the Dwarves provide violent resistance. Ragarin was not blind to the realities of their situation. Svarland alone could never stand against The Empire, but Grobi had done nothing to retain their dignity. One look and he bent his knee to a proxy, some puff-collared representative of their fabled Emperor. Was Svarland so far beneath his sights? He doubted the Emperor would ever set foot on their island, and yet he claimed now to own it. What was more, a settlement of humans, _Hannesberg_ , now adorned the western shore. It was bad enough the elves from the south schemed in their forests, but now the _Umgi_ were infesting their coasts. And, of course, Grobi’s pockets were all the heavier for his fealty.

          There were enemies at every gate, and Ragarin was forced to ignore them. Hror would not have allowed the defiling of their home with human cities. Hror would not have given any quarter until this Emperor Magnus himself came to beg for his fealty.

          Hror joined him there, after a time. His breath was thick with alcohol, but he still spoke with clarity and confidence. “I have sworn an oath to bring you back to the party, Rag. Don’t make my first failure be the result of my own lieutenant.”

          “As you wish, my general.” He said casually. “Perhaps you could even take an oath to get me drunk tonight.”

          “Ha! That’s the spirit. Now come on, Stevik is wearing the trophy of our most recent kill as a hat, and I don’t have the heart to tell him to stop.”

          By the end of the night, another oath was fulfilled, and Ragarin had at least some merriment, despite himself. But even as he drifted into sleep, his unrest clung to the back of his mind. He wasn’t built for peace time. He needed an enemy to kill.

**HJOLMAR**

         

 

Valka’s axe handle dug into his gut, knocking the wind from him with a dull wheeze. Hjolmar struggled to raise his sword in defense, but she was quicker, and the flat of her other axe smashed into his right cheek, sending him careening onto the wooden decking.

          Valka took a defensive stance, but a brief glimpse of her face made her confusion apparent. She rarely if ever actually managed to land a blow on Hjolmar, and never this early into practice. She must have thought it was one of his usual unorthodox tactics, perhaps an overreaction to a glancing blow to coax out a drop in guard.

          Hjolmar wished that was the case, as he struggled not to caress the now aching half of his face. He raised his guard, mirroring her stance.

          She charged at him, a heavy axe sweep colliding with Hjolmar’s swift parry. The impact rocked through his arm, and his grip barely kept the smile of her weapon from finding one of his widened legs. He grunted as his arms flailed awkwardly to recover. Valka threw both axes blade-first into the decking and pushed his arm away before delivering a punch to his face. Hjolmar failed to stifle his wince, his nose was still tender from the Bloodletting. With a final kick to the stomach, Hjolmer toppled once again to the floor.

          “That was pathetic.” She said, offering a hand.

          Hjolmar waved it away and struggled to rise on his own. He had probably taken more hits in the past week than he had his entire life. “Just… an off day, maybe?”

          “We’ve fought each other drunk more than once, Hjol. _This_ was worse.”

          “Ehm, bad sleep last night. Can’t get used to this bloody rocking, I guess it ruins my footing as well as my resting,” he lied.

          Valka had never been what even her dim-witted peers would consider especially bright. Sociability, gatherings, speaking, these things were just the annoying filler between one fight and the next. The fact that she was now looking at Hjolmar like he was an idiot spoke volumes.

          “What are you doing?” She asked flatly.

          “What?”

          “You’re trying to pull _something_ , Hjol. You’re a better fighter than that. And you’re a better liar than this. And you always _shave_.”

          “Oh, so you noticed my beard coming in?” He said stroking his fresh stubble, desperately attempting to change the subject.

          “Barely.” She said with a thin smile. “Now tell me what the problem is before I pull your arms off.”

          “Fine! Fine. All this time I’ve been… _dismissive_ of our traditions. I thought they were only holding us back. My fighting, for instance. Kel, and… Father, and the rest too, they all scoffed at and condemned the way I fought. But I always won, and for a time I thought that was all that mattered. The dead don’t care about honour, and maybe the gods don’t either.”

Valka maintained her passively condescending facial expression.

          “Yes, yes, I know it sounds obvious. But, just listen. After last night, I’ve been thinking. Maybe… maybe it’s all been to keep me from turning into someone like Olavi. Gods Valka, skinning people? I’d expect that of the Slaaneshi, but the Bonesplitters? This isn’t us. It isn’t _me_. Kel is right, I need to stop living in my own little world. I need to fight like a warrior, not a bloody _dancer_.”

          “And you’re going to make this happen by getting the piss kicked out of you?” She asked with questionable sarcasm.

          “I was hoping that maybe I could get some help from the enormous warrior-woman who runs into battle in an unstoppable rage. Teach me so I _don’t_ get the piss kicked out of me.”

          “Alright, fine.” She said almost immediately, returning to standing position. She began to reach for her axes, something which Hjolmar took as the signal to scramble for his sword. “You can start by not taking the full force of my swing into your parry.”

          The next few days were a painful demonstration that, outside of his natural talents, Hjolmar was a very slow learner.

…

          “Very impressive!” Nor said as Hjolmar hit the ground, disarmed for what felt like the thousandth time. He had been practicing for days, often skipping meals or even forgoing sleep in favor of learning to fight like a true Norsca. He directed his growing frustration towards getting back to his feet, in increasingly aggressive manners. “Truly our leader is a fearsome sight.”

          Hjolmar struggled to calm himself in the face of Nor’s japes; his whole body ached, and much of the decking now protruded from his bare skin in tiny splinters. His left eye was blackened from a poor block sent smashing into his face, and his normally pale skin was purple and bruised. He turned to Nor, seated on the portside bulwark, several of his ilk on either side.  He stepped back onto the deck and approached casually, palms wide.

          Hjolmar affected his best laugh. “Ha! Yes, I have difficulty fighting all-out against my friends, much to Valka’s frequent disappointment.”

          Valka snorted, but said nothing.

          “Oh, of course, of course! Morvan has the same problem,” He turned and pointed to one of the men with him, a warrior with greasy black hair and a styled mustache. “Though… you wouldn’t know that, would you? You’ve not joined us for dinner this past week, _Captain_. They’ve been many a merry affair, so many wonderful tales. I wonder at what was so important to miss it.” Nor did nothing to hide his accusation, and leered at Hjolmar challengingly.

          “Apologies,” Hjolmar said, easily adopting a busied persona but struggling to produce what exactly he had been busy with. “I train very frequently, so my remaining time is spent attending to the Captain’s duties.”

          “Ah, I see. Well, I’ve no patience for such things, but Sven here…” He stuck out a gloved hand and motioned for one of his group, a stout man with tanned, muscular arms and a scalp burned bald where an identifying tattoo had once sat. “…has a mind for such things. Just let him know what you need, and I’m sure he’d be happy to assist one of such stature as you, _Captain_.”

          Hjolmar waved the man away dismissively. “Thank you for the offer, Nor. But I need to concentrate on my practice for the time being. Perhaps I could make up for lost time this evening, and join you all for dinner?”

          “I fear you won’t have the time, captain.” Sven said politely. “I’ve been tracking our course, we should be making landfall before sundown.”

          “Ah! A pity.” Nor said. “Well, _Captain_ , we’ll leave you to your work, though maybe you should find the time to get acquainted instead. With all us criminals on board, friendship may be your only protection.”

 

**JORIC**

         

 

“Land! Land on the horizon!”

          Joric groaned as he hoisted himself out of a pile of netting, one which he hadn’t recalled laying down in the night before. Judging by the position of the sun, and his not-at-all accurate interpretation of said position, he figured it was probably past noon. Being entirely useless in the area of ship maintenance had succeeded in keeping him largely responsibility-free for the week long journey, something he had little to complain about.

          He began what barely qualified as a crawl over to the starboard railing, and peered towards their destination. It seemed a small island, with some thankfully cold weather where they were set to land if the white-capped cliffs were any indication. Joric had always hated the climate of the Lowlands, it made him sweat near-constantly.

          Still groggy, he rolled away from the edge of the boat, and right into Kel’s boots. Joric nearly jumped overboard.

          “Ah, the lazy one.” Kel said in his usual rasp.

          Joric clumsily stood to his feet, shaking the fatigue from his limbs.

          “Oh, just guarding the ropes, honored Vitki. Can never be too careful with all these criminals on board.”

          Kel studied him for a moment, his infected, pink eyes twitched to and fro. He was about to speak before Joric cut him off.

          “Of course, you’ve been trying to get friendly with them, haven’t you?” Joric was emboldened by his exile, while others felt bound to their coming deaths, Joric felt freed by it. He had a hard time keeping his resentment for the Vitki buried, now that whatever age-old traditions that honoured him no longer applied. “Nor doesn’t seem to be listening too hard though, what I can see. Makes me wonder why anyone should listen to you now? You’re a doomed warrior like the rest of us.”

          Kel’s face tightened, and Joric prepared himself for whatever rebuke the old man would produce. He stared challengingly into the seer’s bloated, pink eyes, cracking a grin of self-satisfaction.

          But the grin never came. The muscles in his face felt taught, helplessly straining to remain still. The feeling quickly spread to the rest of his body, sinew after sinew tightening until he was completely immobile. Sweat beaded his brow as he tried to muster even the smallest twitch of his fingers, but it was like every limb, every tactile inch of his body was fighting against him.

          Kel’s hand extended slowly from his cloak. The occasional tremor shook his arm, as if to emphasize some physical frailty. The barest hint of a smile played across his thin lips, and his diseased eyes seemed to glow in their sockets. The approach was agonizingly slow, a pathetic creep that a crippled child would have been able to outmatch.

          And yet, with the most delicate of touches, his fingers closed around Joric’s throat.

          “Shall I show you why I am not like the rest of you?”

          He let the silence hang for a moment. His ugly, pink eyes fixed on Joric’s. He felt the blood leave his face as he looked into those black pin-pricks. They seemed to stretch away forever, like pits into the sea of stars.

          Then, all at once, his body relaxed, his spent muscles failing fruitlessly to keep him upright. He fell backwards into his makeshift bed, drenched in sweat. He gasped for air, his lungs filling slowly and painfully.

          Kel turned to leave. “Hnnnnnh, even after a lecture you continue to laze about.” His voice was thick with humour.

…

          When the shoreline was just within viewing distance, the boom was lowered, and the slaves below deck halted. Joric took this as the signal to hoist himself onto his feet and join the rest of the crew. He had not moved since his exchange with Kel.

          Joric had expected an approach on a coastline village, or some small fishing community. Instead the Hafgala’s mangled prow pointed to a long line of sheer cliffs, their crowns dusted with ice and snow. Below one such bluff was an immense cave, a towering maw gaping just above sea level that belched a thin haze of black smoke into the salty air. Joric could barely make out more uniform, rectangular structures within, jutting from both the floor and the roof of the cave like great stone teeth.

          Dwarves, then.

          The Bone-splitters had an enmity to the shortest of the Lowland peoples, one shared in equal parts between generations. Any argument between himself and a Gray could often be smoothed out with a joke about “those damned Squats.”

          Joric pushed through the small crowd which had gathered on the midship and joined Hjolmar and Valka at the bow. Kel was with them, and gave Joric a challenging look as he approached.

          _I won’t be scared so easily_ , thought Joric. Of course, he had been terrified, but bending to that fear would only leave Kel all the stronger. He tried to put it to the back of his mind, there was no use fretting about it now.

          “So, uh, we giving them some time to prepare?” He asked Hjolmar, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

          Hjolmar turned to him, stone-faced. Well, more like bruised-faced, if Joric had to be honest. Valka had told him of Hjolmar’s recent attempts to become a more traditional warrior, which from what Joric could tell amounted to peach-fuzz and a black eye. And yet still the bastard was the most handsome of the three.

          “We were considering how best to make an entrance, shall we say. I was considering asking our more battle-hardened retinue what they think.” Hjolmar responded, though Joric couldn’t tell if the desire for council was forced or sincere.

          Nor stepped from the crowd, but didn’t seem to be addressing anyone but his own cronies. Hjolmar and Kel bristled in unison.

          “Cave looks undefended, but with Squats you never know.” His voice was stunningly average, for such a recognizable brigand. “I say we land up the coast, try and find a tunnel from the surface, slit their throats while they sleep. We come in by sea, they may have cannons.”

          There was a murmur of agreement through Nor’s compatriots, one which had yet to settle back to silence before Hjolmar interrupted.

          “You aren’t brigands anymore, Nor. We aren’t here to fight in the shadows.” Encouragement of a straightforward approach sounded odd coming from Hjolmar. Must have been his new, pious attitude talking.

          Nor shared a heavy-lidded look with the man beside him, a short fellow by the name of Sven. “Ah, ‘duplicity’.” Nor said mockingly, before turning to Hjolmar. “Yeah. I’m sorry, _Captain,_ but honourable as that sounds, it ain’t too smart. Oh! And my mistake, the boys have been telling me about your preferred title, _Sword-Dancer_.”

          Grunts of amusement followed from the crowd. Hjolmar looked like he was about to blow a blood-vessel.

          “Do not call me that.” Hjolmar’s voice was a low growl. “I am the captain of this ship and of you. And if that doesn’t sway you, perhaps you should consider that coming in through their tunnels will put us exactly where they want us to be. How well can you fight while ducking under their architecture?”

          _Ah, there’s the Hjol I know_ , Joric thought.

          “Well enough, _Sword-Dancer_. I’ve been talking to the boys for our journey and they’ve got some real impressive stories about splitting Squats. Though I suppose you’ve not heard `em, been too busy with your Captain’s duties and all. I’d say we should call you Hjolmar _Black-Eye_ , but that’d just be confusing.” More laughter erupted from the gathering below.

          Hjolmar’s smile was unsettlingly fake. “Apologies, Nor. I’d forgotten I was speaking to brigands. If I try to assault them with any honour at all, you may turn tail and leap into the sea.”

          Nor’s good humour turned to choler. “What did you say to me, you little-” his insult was cut off by Olavi suddenly appearing from the crowd, who rested a placating hand over the pommel of Nor’s blade, now halfway out of its sheath.

          “Please, Nor. My captain.” He made the faintest bow to both Hjolmar and the fuming brigand. “I may have a solution to satisfy both parties. It will allow us to strike in a manner they do not expect, without sacrificing our… forwardness.”

…

          As they would later discover, the village was named _Urbaz_.

          Joric would have given much to see the look on the dock soldiery’s faces when a flaming longship sailed out of the gloom and collided with the stony port. To them, it must have seemed like the screams of the damned emanated from the immolated ship, while in reality it was the panicked slaves below deck. Kel remained on board to break their chains after the collision, sending the survivors panicking into the forming wall of awestruck guards. Kel himself would step from the wreckage after the battle was over, completely unharmed, and with nary a light singe.

          As panic overtook the docks, Joric swam with the rest of the Exiled Warband a few feet below the icy water. Even to those as hardy as the Dwarves, spending too long in the north’s freezing seas was a death sentence. To the Norsca, it was a mild irritant, any ill-effects quickly forgotten when the battle began, and blood began to flow. They trailed behind the burning wreck, guided by its ghostly orange glow.

          While the cities’ guards busied themselves with the hysterical slaves, the Norsca rose from the black water like vengeful sea gods, dripping with kelp and with terrible weapons in hand. Bit by bit their force clawed onto the stony floor of Urbaz, briefly regarding the Dwarves’ alien, geometric architecture. One after another the Norsca sent throaty war cries into the waiting cave, a dirge that echoed across the previously undisturbed settlement.

…

          With an overhead swing, Joric split the dwarf before him in half. A blacksmith, he had guessed, by the apron around his waist and the fine sword in his hand. Every villager was putting up a fight, a stark contrast to raiding the towns of man, where the old and the weak would cower in their shacks, waiting for death’s hand to reach them. Not so for the dwarves, even the frail raised arms against the Norsca horde. In some small way, Joric admired that.

He barely sidestepped the club of a child, wielded with a skill unexpected from a youth. The frequent butt of jokes and derision, the height of the Dwarves proved more useful in combat than the Norsca had predicted. The raiders of the north were large by nature, towering above lowland men and possessing muscle density to rival the Dwarves themselves, and they were used to a disparity in size.

They were not, Joric grudgingly admitted, used to their foes striking at thigh-height. Many raiders were limited to clumsy, overhead swings, and parrying was made nearly impossible. The smart ones quickly learned that to dodge would serve them far better. He saw the less intelligent forcibly separated from their shins by battleaxes and claymores.

He took another step back before swinging low, separating the boy’s head from his shoulders. By the time his body hit the ground Joric was sprinting, in search of some untapped well of resistance. The port was on fire now, the stubbornly saturated wood of their various crates and loading contraptions finally giving way to the blazing ship’s flames. The pyre sent a grey soot into the air, mixing and mingling with the midnight snow of their forges and the earthy colour of their stone houses.

A trail of severed limbs and shattered corpses lead him to Valka, deep in the throes of rage and hacking apart a group of three guards. She batted their parries aside and hacked into bloody flesh with brief grunts of satisfaction. Clearly she had no issue adjusting the height of her foes. She pinned one to the ground with her axe before ripping another’s arm off, rings of mail bouncing away as the dwarves’ armor was pulled apart. Joric decided that she would be fine on her own.

          The nearby streets were barren, either abandoned or already pillaged. Joric let out a sigh of frustration. For the beginning of a suicidal crusade against the lowlanders, it had been rather light on opponents. He had time now to regard their strange architecture, and wondered how the dwarves’ had managed to hew entire buildings from the rock itself.

          He was pulled from his thoughts when he felt cold steel against his throat. He was in the middle of the empty street, and didn’t understand how an enemy could sneak up on him, much less reach his neck.

          “Hello, Joric.” Olavi’s high voice made his skin crawl. He peeled the blade away, and gave Joric a gentle shove forward.

          “A joke, yes? You like to joke, I am told.” He paced casually, waving his thin blade through the air in figure-eights. His sword was extremely thin, a sliver of metal dancing in the firelight. Joric doubted it could even deflect a blow without snapping.

          “Yes, very funny. What do you want?” Joric rubbed his throat, and was relieved to find a lack of blood.

          “You are Hjolmar’s advisor. He does not seem to appreciate my counsel, and has avoided me since our introduction. He never fails to heed yours, however.”

          “Doesn’t explain what you want.”

          “Precisely what you do, Joric. To see him succeed. But Kel wants to control him, Nor wants to kill him, and he now seems hurried to fulfill both wants.” He stopped his pacing and let his arms hang. “Hjolmar is a skilled fighter, perhaps the greatest among us. But he handicaps himself, thinking it will please Khorne. We must convince him to embrace his natural talents, before he dies.”

          “Maybe Valka and I have his ear because we respect him enough to tell him to his face when we have a problem. And I don’t doubt he’ll take to his new style before long.” He cursed himself for not being a better liar. He had done his best to have faith in Hjolmar until now, but his training against Valka had been less than fruitful.

          “You also pretend that determination on his part will deliver him unto success.” Olavi responded, seemingly oblivious to Joric’s deceit. “It will not, and when you find his mangled body at the feet of a Dwarven warlord, you will curse yourself for not fighting harder for him. But I will make things easy. I will give you a tool to help convince him.” There was an awkward pause between each statement, seemingly existing only to make his wide-eyed stare more uncomfortable.

“Alright. What is it?” Joric asked, only mostly reluctantly.

          “Knowledge. Power. Did you know, Joric, how the discussion between Hjolmar, his father, and Kel went? I imagine you do not, but I was there, beside the tent. And Balnar is not a quiet man.”

          “What does that have to do with-“

          “Balnar had barely begun his chastisement when Kel spoke, and proposed this expedition. Oh, how he threw his tantrum, I could even hear the stomping of his feet from outside. But he did not once threaten a punishment. I have no doubt he had one in mind, but Kel spoke first.”

          “So what?” Joric asked bruskly.

          “Hmm. Slow. Stupid. So unlike your friend. Let us think together. Kel told you Balnar wanted to give his son an Iron Crown, something you were shocked to hear, if I recall.”

          “You were listening in on us too? Actually, never mind. Just shut up and be straight with me.” Joric was tiring quickly of Olavi’s dancing around the issue.

          “Oh no, Joric. You like jokes, and I like games.” He opened his hands as if to clarify. “I told a joke and now you will play the game. Play until you figure out what I am trying to communicate.”

          “Why?”

          “Because it amuses me.”

          Joric considered turning and walking away. Hell, he even considered beating whatever idiotic secret Olavi was holding out of him. But whatever it was about the man’s gaze, Joric knew that what he was talking about was more important than he was going to risk not hearing. He decided to humor him, if nothing else, for Hjolmar’s sake.

          “Yes, I hadn’t heard he would do that to his own son.” He said it quickly, trying to speed up Olavi’s crawling pace.

          “The Iron Crown, our harshest of punishments, and a rather public affair. But you had not heard a thing about it. Nor did Balnar ever once mention it. Why do you suppose that was?”

          Joric figured his thought process was written clear across his face, as a small grin of satisfaction formed on Olavi’s otherwise static face.

          “He was never planning on execution.”

          “He was not.” Olavi parroted.

          “At least, not one so cruel. And Kel, how did he propose the forming of an Exiled Warband?”

          “Very aggressively.” Olavi was smiling now, an expression which served only to show how little the man understood the emotion of joy.

          “So you’re telling me Kel set this whole thing up. Why? And that’s assuming you’re not the one lying.”

          “Ah, the end of the game. The rest is in your hands, Joric. I do not know why Kel wants your friend, and why he wanted to remove him from _Kartak_ to do so. And you do not know if I am being truthful. So I leave it to you to decide. Hjolmar’s life may depend on it. Of course, I could be helpful in deducing what Kel wants. But then, I would need Hjolmar’s confidence to do so.”

          Joric thought back to his interaction with Kel the day prior, his depthless stare burned into Joric’s memories. If the choice was between Kel and Olavi, Joric would happily take the lesser of two evils.

          “Well, I-“ he stopped upon noticing that Olavi had disappeared as silently as he had arrived. _Slippery bastard_ , Joric thought.

          He returned to his roaming, now an absent-minded walk over a search for opponents. It had been odd that the Vitki would agree to accompany a gang of dead men, even more so that he had apparently engineered the situation.

          A loud crash down the nearby alleyway shook him once again from his thoughts. He held his axe defensively and slowly advanced into the darkened space. The glow of the fire did little to illuminate the cloying blackness, and Joric nearly tripped making his way through the narrow corridor.

          Two bodies began to take shape in the darkness. The first, a dwarf, was dressed in full chain armor with an ornate breastplate. He was on his back, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and blood pooled on the dirty floor from the back of his head. Beside the dead dwarf was Hjolmar, his armor ravaged and his skin caked in drying blood. His left arm was twisted into a shape not unlike a ram’s horn, jagged spears of bone protruding from ragged flesh.

          Joric rushed to his friend, kneeling low and putting his ear to Hjolmar’s chest.

          He wasn’t breathing.

 

**RAGARIN**

 

 

Hror marched through _Mountainhearth’s_ great hall, plated boots pounding audibly on the polished floor. The _Kol_ marched behind him in unison, sending an echo through the hall’s narrow doorways and vaulted ceilings. They had been summoned by the king; a new assignment had arrived for them.

          Ragarin wondered what inane challenge Grobi would have in store for them this time.

          But something was different, something that Ragarin on edge. The servants were muttering to each other as they passed, giving odd stares and whispering unheard remarks. They were normally totally silent, especially in the presence of the _Kol_.

          They came to a halt at the immense doors that marked the Mountain-King’s throne room, fashioned entirely from gold harvested deep in the mountain’s cavernous mines. Ragarin began to speak before Hror reached for the doors.

          “My lord, if I may.”

          Hror turned to him, helmet slung under his arm. A wide smile shone from beneath his greying beard. Ragarin had never gotten used to Hror’s jovial face, it seemed ill-fitting of the greatest fighter he had ever known.

          “When our audience is over, my second, when our audience is over.” He began to turn, but quickly peered back over his shoulder. “And try to keep your disdain somewhat hidden, he is still our king, and we are still oath-bound to serve him.”

          “Once again, if I may, my lord, I am not oath-bound to enjoy it.”

          “Ha! No, I suppose not.”

…

_Mountainhearth’s_ throne room had always been an impressive sight. Weapons of the finest make dotted the walls, often beneath the trophies of the many great beasts they had slain. Gold pillars, jutting from the floor like stone trees, pushed high into the ceiling, ballads and carvings adorning their trunks.

Ever since Man’s Empire had come to Svarland, there had been a much greater amount of the precious metal adorning the walls, and Ragarin assumed, in the treasury.

          Grobi had never been one Ragarin would describe positively, but as he looked upon him in recent days, he could only think of his disgraceful surrender. His jaw tightened as he struggled to keep his anger in check.

          _It would never have happened were Hror in command_. He struggled to smother the matra.

          The _Kol_ stood in the throne room’s center, Grobi staring down at them from his throne of rock. He had grown too fat for his robes, and they clung awkwardly to his bloated frame, something his well-kept beard did little to disguise. Numerous necklaces hung in a jingling mass atop his chest, a collection of metals ranging from gold to ithilmar.

          Hror bowed. The _Kol_ followed suit. “My King.”

          Grobi nodded, and they returned to their feet. “My general. Impeccable discipline, as always, you do us proud.” Grobi’s booming voice echoed throughout the throne room. He had the tambour of a leader, at least.

          “Thank you, my king.”

          “Let us get to business, eh? A half-frozen farmer turned up on our doorstep today. Apparently, he ran here from _Urbaz_. He claims daemons rose from the ocean and slaughtered his town. We calmed him down, eventually, and it is now believed we are beset by a Chaos war-band. Fourty, was the man’s estimate.”

          “Norsca,” Hror affirmed.

          “Indeed. My subjects need to know they are safe, my general, so I am sending you to wipe them out.”

          “It is an honor, my king. I should scarcely need more than seventy infantry to destroy them.”

          “No. No, I have discussed with my strategists, and we have decided that only you and your personal guard will face them. We believe, based on reputation, that the normal rank-and-file would suffer disproportionate losses, better to send the elite. What’s more, the elves have crowned their new king. The Winged Lord may be dead, but his son may come seeking vengeance.”

          A heavy silence filled the room. Ragarin was stunned. The entirety of the _Kol_ , venturing across all of Svarland to fight fifty-odd raiders without support? Especially when another war with the elves may be on the horizon? It didn’t make sense. He waited for Hror to make a counterpoint, to question the insanity of the decision.

          But he did not. He merely sunk into another bow, identical to the one made upon entering.

          “As you command, my king. I swear on my life they shall be destroyed.”

…

          No words passed between them on their march back to their personal barracks. Those they passed by bowed low and sung praises of the _Kol_ and its leader, as they always did. Ragarin had difficulty keeping his fury in check for the full forty minutes it took their return journey.

          He was shaking with rage when they finally entered their keep.

          “My general, permission to speak.”

          “You always have it, my second.”

          “Grobi is a lying rat, a-a-a damned _wanaz!_ ”

          “He is your king, and you will show him the respect his office affords.” Hror’s usual good mood was gone now, replaced by the look of a scolding parent.

          “He is trying to get us, and you most of all, killed, my lord! He knows the people adore you, and despise him! He thinks you jeopardize his position!”

“And shall I prove him right, Ragarin? Shall I let his cowardice drag me through the dirt as well? By storming the throne room with a gaggle of angry merchants at my back? No. We have a duty. We have sworn our oaths, made our vows. We will prove our loyalty, and we will return alive. We will show him that he has nothing to fear from us.”

Ragarin knew he should have backed down then and there, but he was never one for stoicism. “And why should he not?” Ragarin said through gritted teeth, pointing an armoured finger at his master. “Do we coddle cowards? Do we show pity to the spies who sold us out before the massacre at _Tolk_? Grobi betrayed us the moment he bowed to that _Umgi_ wearing the polished tin he called armor! We could have made them bleed for Svarland, but Grobi gave it up without a fight. This our home! There is nothing more sacred! And for that he is-”

Ragarin was interrupted by Hror’s armored fist crumpling his nose and knocking him to the floor. He had barely begun the struggle to stand again when a steel boot hammered into his ribs, sending him rolling onto his back. Hror stomped on his chest and held him on the floor.

“Were you anyone else, Ragarin, I would have your beard off, and your head would follow.” His usually jovial face was contorted into a savage snarl. “Grobi did what he thought he had to do, but if you think I’m pleased about it then you are more blind than he is. But we are dwarves, we are honour and battle given form, but sometimes I wonder if you think battle is all there is!”

He was silent for a moment, and Ragarin didn’t dare speak before his master continued. He had never seen him so furious, and that it had been him who drove Hror to this point drowned his anger in shame.

“Do not forget what we are, Ragarin. Even if others have. If we let them drag us down, then we will be dwarves no longer. Just… cowards and fools and savages.” He withdrew his foot, and Ragarin could see his anger draining out of him with every second.

He groand as he righted himself again, taking a knee and bowing his head. “Forgive me, my General. I will pay with my life if it is your will.”

“Oh shut up you stubborn ox.” Hror hoisted Ragarin back to his feet. “We’ve got Norsca to kill, and I don’t think it wise to hurt our chances before we even step out of the gate.” He was smiling again, like the argument had never happened.

“Thank you, my general. I will strive to be better.” His words sounded hollow, perhaps to no one but himself.

…

          Stevik found him later as he was polishing his armor, choosing a rote activity to try and clear his head. It wasn’t working.

          “Boss really laid into you, Rag. You should’ve seen your face.” Stevik entered Ragarin’s personal quarters in his usual, entirely uninvited manner.

          “Trying to rile me up again, Stev? I am an iron wall unto your baiting. I must be better. I must keep my anger in check. I must not complain about our idiot king, or the fact that we’re going to throw lives away defending _Urbaz_.”

          “The sea-town, right?” Stevik asked quizzically. “Right, `suppose that’s what they get for only having three walls.”

          “Dwarves living under the sky.” Ragarin said dismissively, still focused on his work. “Hror is right. We need to remember who we are, but is identity not important too? Is culture not a part of who we are?” He looked up at Stevik pleadingly. “Am I wrong? Am I just some stubborn bastard to set in his ways to see things clearly?”

          “Well there’s no doubt about that.” Stevik said with a grin. “Rag, I can see your points, and trust me, none of us are happy under King Grobi. But this anger is going to eat you from the inside out if you let it fester like this. Let it die. There’s no sense in fretting over what we can’t change. Trust in Hror, he knows better than us the way of things.”

          He was right, of course. Ragarin had never felt so conflicted. There was no one he respected more than Hror, no one he would sooner learn from or fight beside. He felt like a child, whining about things he had no right to, and things he couldn’t change.

But he couldn’t escape the feeling that perhaps he was right.

**HJOLMAR**

 

 

No sunlight came through the small, square windows of the stone hut Hjolmar woke in. For a brief while he couldn’t figure where he was, and he stared unthinking at the smooth, grey ceiling. Joric and Valka were there, by his bedside, recognizable even through his blurred vision. They hadn’t noticed him yet, so he turned his attention to what had transpired in the last few days. It was faint at first, he could vaguely remember the boat, and the gaping maw in the cliffs ahead. His memories came faster after that, flooding vivid recollection into his recovering brain.

Joric finally noticed his stirring, and readjusted himself so that Hjolmar could see him in greater definition.

"Deja vu, eh Jor?" Hjolmar said, his words slurring slightly. He felt like he’d drank an ocean’s worth of mead the night before, and he could tell the headache to match wasn’t far off.

Joric gave him an irate look. "You almost died, Hjol."

_Almost died?_ Yes, he had, hadn't he? More memories took shape in his head; landing on the beach, charging into town, the hammer strike to his arm.

Pain flared up in the bandaged limb, making him wince.

Yes, the hammer strike to his arm. That was more vivid.

"Well, the price we pay for experience." He said with a pained smile.

Joric was on the bed before he could react, hoisting Hjolmar up and against the wall by his collar. He grunted as his wounds flared up, protesting the sudden motion.

"Is this a game to you, Hjol? You nearly died, and this time it wasn't because you lost your weapon. I saw you fight, when we landed. You looked like a bloody drunkard, flailing about like you'd never held a sword before!"

Confusion and anger washed over him. He hadn’t even remembered Joric attempting to dissuade him in the first place. “And what of it? Yes, it's a risk to try and change how I fight now. But what choice do I have? Kel says-"

"To hell with Kel! He’s the reason we’re all in this mess, and I’m agape that you’re too stupid to realize that even now!” Joric thrust Hjolmar violently into the wall, his own hands dropping to his sides.

Hjolmar sunk back into the bed, hands clumsily raised in defense. "What?"

Joric turned away and paced for a moment, scratching the back of his head as if to signify deeper thought. “I spoke to Olavi, he told me what happened after we left Kel’s tent.”

"Olavi?” Frustration blossomed in Hjolmar’s chest. “Jor, he's the whole reason I'm doing this! Why would you trust-"

"No, listen! For once in your life, just shut up and listen to what I'm telling you!"

Hjolmar went quiet, equally from the demand as from the shock of seeing him so angry. It saddened him that Joric was so perturbed by something he had done.

"Did your father ever once mention giving you the Iron Crown? He? Himself?"

"No." Hjolmar said, more quietly now.

"It’s the Iron Crown, Hjol. Valka and I hadn't heard anything of it, and we visited you hours after the fight. Your father didn't once mention it, to us or to you. Only Kel."

Hjolmar stared at him for a long moment. It was true, his father had not threatened him with their cruellest punishment. His tirade had been long, his usual petulant lecturing, but he had never once mentioned it by name. And knowing his father, he absolutely would have if that was his intent.

"So... my father's fear. It wasn't to see his son succeed, or to smear his name."

"It was the fear of the Vitki, the same fear that keeps anyone from putting the old bastard in his place.” Joric said, his anger changing focus. “He wasn't afraid of what you would do Hjol, he was afraid _for_ you. I don't know what Kel is planning, but whatever it is, you're walking straight into it. He's trying to get you killed, Hjol, whatever the reason for it. And he nearly succeeded today."

Hjolmar felt numb. Had he really been manipulated so easily? He had always hoped to be the intelligent warrior, the one who saw things objectively, the man of logic. Had he instead been projecting what he wanted to see over what really was? Had he jumped at any opportunity to validate his own whims? He thought of his uncle, and his last words.

_“I see.”_

It had been in front of him the whole time, but he was too scared to think back to that day, to consider what had actually transpired. Balnar never ordered the death of his brother, Kel did. His face flushed, embarrassed by his own blindness.

No, He would not let himself sink into self-pity. Not this time. He would use this, he would not loathe himself for it. _Use the anger_ , he told himself, _let that rage at your failure stoke the fire of your ambition_.

"You need to fight your own way, Hjol. I've practiced with you, seen the way you fought before. You may hate the name Vorkjal, but you are everything deadly and graceful one would expect from such a name. Own it, Hjol. Don't let them mock the name sword-dancer. Make them _fear_ it."

...

They had spent the following hours discussing at length how they might challenge Kel's authority. It was obvious neither he, nor much of the Warband, held any respect for Hjolmar, as evidenced by the total lack of any visitors concerned for his well-being.

One course of action was obvious: Hjolmar needed to earn their admiration. It wasn’t long before he had decided how.

Nor had wasted little time establishing a base in what used to be the local tavern. A throne of barstools had been erected at its head, and his followers sat on the tables, as they were more appropriately sized for seating a Norsca warrior. The less fortunate of his cronies had been given the tasks of clearing out the bodies and wiping the drying viscera off the walls and floor.

Little heed was payed to Hjolmar and his companions as they entered, and those that did feigned ignorance. He was more of a pariah than he had thought.

Nor was mid conversation with one of his seconds when they approached the base of his ramshackle throne, and made no effort to end his conversation for their sake.

"Will you obey me?" Hjolmar asked, loud enough for the whole building to hear, and interrupting Nor's story-telling.

"`Scuse me?" He said, looking far more amused than anything.

"Will you do what I tell you, without question or mockery? You did not on the _Hafgala_. I wonder if you will do it here."

He readjusting himself to face the three. "Look around, boy.” He smiled mockingly down at him. “What do these men owe you? Did you hear their tales of valor? Did you concern yourself with their wants and desires? Did you fight alongside them when we landed here? Why should they follow someone who doesn’t give a damn about them? And why should I follow some pup who thinks his blood gives him claim to leadership?”

"I was named Captain, Nor. It isn’t my concern what you want.”

Nor’s grin spread wider. “Oh, are you now?” He stood, and leapt onto the stone floor. He landed with a dull thud, rattling the tankards of liquor sitting yet unclaimed on the bar’s countertop. He stood to his full height slowly, emphasizing his superior size. “A captain, like a Jarl, eh? Well, Captain, I challenge you for your title.” He pulled his sword free from his scabbard, and made the ceremonial gesture of a sword pointed towards the stomach. “They say no jarl who denies such a challenge is fit to lead. I’d say the same is true of captains.”

Hjolmar struggled not to smile at the ease of it all. But he had to make it convincing, they wouldn’t follow a conniving schemer.

“Challenging a one-armed man?” he asked with his best feigned sincerity. “Not much a worthy achievement.”

“I see no rules against it.” He said, face twisting into something much more sadistic. “But don’t worry _Sword-Dancer_. I won’t kill you too quickly. It will be a death long remembered.”

Hjolmar looked about him. Nor’s men looked at him hungrily, and some had their hands on the hilts of their weapons. A few even pushed their chins forward, indicating he should accept. Hjolmar injected the slightest bit of fear into his voice.

“Very well. I accept.”

“Wonderful.” Nor said, sheathing his sword again. “Tomorrow at dawn, _Sword-Dancer_. And don’t try to flee. You don’t want to know what I do with the craven.”

Hjolmar nodded before turning to leave, the chatter resuming. They had all taken the bait, and each conversation was now speculation about his impending death. As they stepped back onto the street, he let the triumphant smile finally form on his lips.

…

          The island’s sunrise did little to impress, as it had in the true north. None paused to watch it, or bothered to take a moment to admire the majesty of the sky coming alight with warmth. It was a muted, pitiful corona about a blindingly intense center. It was neither pleasant nor interesting to look upon.

          The sun cast little light on the makeshift fighting pit dug the night before, and instead torches lined the nearby rock walls. The Exiled Warband waited, eager for the coming battle, though their expectations were wildly in favor of one combatant.

          Joric struggled to apply Hjolmar’s armor without damaging his arm, supported by a sling around his neck.

          “Only you, Hjol. Nowhere else would I see someone, after telling them to be smarter, challenge an infamous brigand to a duel while their arm was broken.”

          “My left arm. I won’t need two.”

          “You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?” Joric stated, finally attaching the straps he’d struggled with for the past five minutes. “You’re also a right silly sight, _armed_ and _armoured_ and with only one _arm_.” He said, half-singing the end.

          “You’re a true poet, Jor. Have you considered being a skald? You could be the first to sing about my heroic victory, down an arm but still conquering a vicious bandit lord.”

          “Here’s hoping I’m not singing about the hilarious death of the one-armed man who challenged a vicious bandit lord.”

          “Well, at least it’ll be memorable either way.”

          They exited the hut and made their way to the makeshift arena, the onlookers abuzz with activity. His arrival was met with few cheers, and fewer genuine ones. Thankfully, Valka managed to scream far louder than the combined jeers of his detractors.

          He stepped into the arena, Nor already waiting at the far side, sharpening his blades with a whetstone. He gave Hjolmar a crooked smile, proudly displaying his rotting teeth. Kel stood at the edge of the fence, and raised his hands for silence from the crowd.

          “As is tradition, when the jarl… _or equivalent_ , is challenged for leadership of a tribe, to deny is cowardice, and to die in the ring, a forfeit of any titles once held.” Impatience was clear in his rasping voice, which carried with unnatural clarity through the onlookers. Kel gave Hjolmar a quick glance that told him the old man knew he was playing at something, but had yet to figure out what.

          Hjolmar struggled to keep his spite for the Vitki hidden. _You’re next, grey of greys._

          Nor cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, exaggerating for show. He drew his twin swords, flipping them forward and back, their polished steel cutting noisily through the air. Hjolmar knew that he himself couldn’t come across as arrogant, not this time. He drew his sword with his good arm, raising it plainly, devoid of his usual flourish.

          Kel stepped from his makeshift podium, the only signal for the bout to begin.

          “Don’t worry, _Sword-Dancer_. Dying to me will be a death more worthy than you deserve.”

          Hjolmar said nothing.

          “Fine, don’t talk. Join the ancestors in silence.” Nor affected a casual attitude, feigning a leisurely walk forward. The illusion was only for those who couldn’t see his eyes, which darted back and forth, absorbing the many details of Hjolmar’s defense. Hjolmar remained still, sword raised. Nor made the first move, a horizontal slash towards Hjolmar’s midriff, an obvious distraction for a blow with his second blade. He blocked the low swing and bent backwards, Nor’s decapitation strike catching only the frigid air.

          The ex-bandit wasted no time pressing the attack, each swing leading into another, each deflected and dodged by his opponent. It continued unceasingly as they weaved through the arena, the clang of steel on steel filling the air as they traversed the ring. Every dodge pulled at his fractured arm, sending pain shooting through his body. But still he dodged, and still Nor pushed forward. The audience watched in silent awe, it must have looked as if the two of them had been choreographing the exchange for days.

          Hjolmar was sweating heavily before long, and the pain was getting worse with each evasion. He could see the frustration written clear across Nor’s face, his inability to hit a one-armed combatant was quickly fraying his patience.

          Before long he made the move Hjolmar knew he would, fuelled by his own frustration. Another deflection, another evasion, and in the moment of his dodging, Nor shot a kick into his broken arm. Hjolmar pivoted backwards, screaming in pain as his shattered arm was forcibly unset by Nor’s blow. He spun backwards, teeth clenched in agony, and pulled Nor off balance, his boot caught in the loop of Hjolmars sling. Nor staggered, struggling to balance on his hind leg. Hjomar unhooked his arm and spun again, the pain nearly making his head swim, and brought his sword across the back of Nor’s forward leg.

It was a clumsy swing, a windmill strike that would have been easy to avoid were his opponent not struggling for balance. But it was also powerful, fuelled by momentum. Hjolmar’s sword cut through the leather boot and severed Nor’s Achilles tendon. The ex-bandit roared in pain as he staggered again, stumbling sideways as his severed tendon rolled up the back of his leg. He spread his arms wide, feebly attempting to regain balance.

          Hjolmar swung upwards as Nor’s arms shot outwards for balance, severing his opponent’s good hand above the wrist. Another agonized scream. This time he attempted to retaliate, forgetting himself in his fury, and lunged forward onto his useless leg, remaining sword pointed forward. Nor tumbled onto the dirt, his strike veering wildly off course as he fell. Hjolmar skipped backwards, driving his sword-tip through his other calf.

          He stepped on Nor’s remaining hand, digging his heel into the squirming fingers. The hand opened, writhing, and Hjolmar sent the offhand blade spinning across the arena with a kick.

          “You see this?” He yelled. He couldn’t keep the pain from his voice, but it didn’t matter now, he had them right where he wanted them. “Nor Blackhand thought me a coward and eunuch, one to be ridiculed and insulted. This is the fate that awaits any that question my leadership.”

          Nor was crawling feebly, attempting to reach his severed hand and sword. Hjolmar grabbed the back of his cuirass and hoisted him into a kneel. The defeated man groaned in pain.

          “Stand, Nor. Stand and die like a warrior.” He doubted anyone besides himself had read Kel’s books on anatomy, and how Nor’s severed tendons made standing impossible. Nor clearly had not, and grunted in frustration as he struggled to rise from his kneeling. The crowd jeered as he failed to rise.

          Hjolmar let him struggle, a pathetic display that devalued him to the audience further with each passing moment. When he was satisfied with Nor’s performance, he swung into the back of his neck. Blood splattered his arm, and the blow sent tremors into his twisted limb, bringing forth further grunts of pain. He hacked again, severing Nor’s head from his body and staining the muddy snow red with vitae. He dug his fingers into the gaping neck-wound, and hoisted Nor’s severed head into the air.

          “Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!” He shouted into the awe-struck stands, arms spread wide.

          The crowd echoed his cries in earnest, chanting the mantra of Khorne with newfound vigour.

…

          He refused any conversation on the trek back to his dwelling, even from Joric, who accompanied him along with Valka. He walked briskly, breathing heavily, his composure failing by the second. Once inside, the door was scarcely shut before he dropped to his knees, quivering, and roared in pain. It was not just the fire of a jagged bone cutting his flesh, his arm simply felt _wrong_ , like his insides weren’t where they should have been. He pressed his forehead to the floor, saliva dripping from his bared teeth as he wheezed spittle onto the dirt.

          Joric was saying something, but he couldn’t hear. It was a mumble through the blood rushing through his ears. His vision was clouding, but he held on to consciousness. He had to endure the pain, the others had to know he was unchallengeable, that even a strike to a broken limb would not fell him.

          Joric soon gave up his attempts to communicate, and wrenched his arm outwards and began to re-splint the mangled limb. Another ocean of pain. Joric was no healer, but he understood the basics of such things. Valka held him down as his closest friend went to work, every movement causing Hjolmar to convulse in agony.

          Joric’s clumsy rebinding lasted nearly an hour.

…

          They were waiting for him when the ordeal was over.

          The entire Warband had gathered outside the hut, with Kel at the fore. Chatter was rampant through the assembled Norsca,

          “They’ve been showing up since Jor started splinting you.” Valka said, seated by the room’s solitary window. “Good thing you didn’t scream.”

          His arm was still on fire. He couldn’t think of a worse situation requiring his being anything close to coherent. But he had no choice, he needed to be more than himself if he wanted their respect. He had to defy what it was to be human.

          He got to his feet slowly, Joric staying nearby to grab him if he fell. He felt something pop in his back as he straightened again, and his arm twitched with pain. But he said nothing, and stepped out to greet the waiting crowd.

          Too late, he realized he hadn’t thought at all of what to say. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

          “Behold” Kel spread his arms wide, his raised voice cutting through the crowd’s murmurs. “One worthy of your swords. He is no coward brigand, and he is no longer the green pup who began this journey. See how he is changed, hardened by the pain, refined into a blade unbending. The Blood God casts his gaze upon your captain! Follow him, die for him! For he will carve you a path to the side of the Skull Throne itself!”

          The crowd responded in earnest, shoving their fists into the air and shouting “ _Sword-Dancer_ ” over and over. The unfamiliar feeling of adoration washed over him. It felt good. He stared into the faces of his crew, loyalty apparent for the first time. His gaze fell upon Kel last, their eyes meeting.

          Hjolmar could figure his game. Kel planned to use him as he had Balnar, a puppet ruler, a kind face to mask his own. _How ironic_ , Hjolmar thought, _that Kel will be the puppet before long_.

         

 

**JORIC**

The bar that Nor once claimed for himself had, like the rest of his claims, fallen to Hjolmar. The blonde warrior sat atop the pile of mangled stools, and would judge the needs of the Warband as they arose. It was clear he greatly enjoyed his newfound respect, though perhaps he enjoyed looking down on his kin a little too much.

          They would revel in the spoils of their raid until his arm healed, he had said, and enjoy they did. There was drink aplenty, the dwarves thankfully producing stronger liquor than the Empire of Man. They made sport with whatever Dwarven artwork that wasn’t hewn from the stone itself, and stripped the blacksmith’s plentiful stores for materials and weaponry.

          Joric was at Hjolmar’s right hand, and Valka at his left. Hjolmar had assured them they were as deserving of the Warband’s respect as he, a statement Joric found humorous while they were left to stand on the floor. Joric turned to Olavi, who stood further to the right, now wearing an expression of perpetual self-satisfaction. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front of him, and was silent until called upon. Every time Joric looked at him he remembered the boy’s steel against his throat.

          Joric returned his attention to the matter at hand. Of all the Norsca, Sven had become the most exultant of Hjolmar’s victory over his former master. He stood before them now, petitioning his value as a strategist and enforcer, using big words that he doubtlessly thought would impress his new well-read leader.

          “…Nor’s short-sightedness was his own doom, and I fully admit I was a right daft idiot for assisting him. But know that the fear he held over the slaves, and the loyalty of his men were as much engineered by me as him.” He finished, wearing an air of confidence that almost had Joric believing him.

          Almost.

          He looked up at Hjolmar, who had slouched deep in his seat, and stroked his freshly shaved face as if in contemplation. Joric wondered if Hjolmar would lose any of his hard-earned respect if it was revealed that Joric had to cut away his stubble while his broken limb healed, the perpetual strain on his damaged arm giving his good hand tremors.

          “Joric.” He said suddenly, not looking at him. “Council me. I am wondering why Sven believes he can be of use to me when you are more personable, Valka is a better fighter, and I am much smarter.”

          Joric cracked a grin. Hjolmar had already (though very reluctantly) allowed Olavi to stand in his personal council, he didn’t need another viper in his nest. “Perhaps he could sharpen your sword while your arm heals. Very taxing work, that, and I believe he may be the only man worthy of such an honour.”

          The Norsca at the surrounding tables burst into howling laughter, some spilling their drinks everywhere. To Sven’s credit, he let no embarrassment show through his stance or face. He took only a moment before joining in the laughter himself.

          “Apologies Hjolmar, I can now see you are well at hand. I fear I must decline the honour of polishing your sword, however, though I am always at your disposal if you change your mind.” Joric didn’t know how Sven managed to make his smile so genuine.

          “No.” Hjolmar said, his voice raised just slightly. The remaining chatter of the onlookers died immediately. “No, I think Joric has the right of it. And from what I’ve seen of you, Sven, you are very adept at polishing the swords of your betters.” Hjolmar spoke through a smile that belied no lack of contempt.

          Sven stood silent for a moment, considering his next words carefully. “Of course, with your arm broken you must find the task difficult. You will be able to see your own reflection when I am done with your blade.” Joric was impressed at the man’s skill at saving face.

          “Good.” Hjolmar said, clearly less amused. “See to it.”

          Sven spun on his heel and exited the hall in a hurried stride.

          Almost immediately following his departure, two Norsca entered, dragging a battered dwarf between them. He was dressed in their people’s odd finery, loose cloth and trinkets scraping the floor.

          “We found this one buried under some burnt dock wood, tried to climb his way out this last night. `Figured you’d want the say on what we do with him.”

          _Oh yes, inflate his ego further_ , Joric thought.

          The two deposited their prisoner onto the stony floor. The dwarf struggled back to his feet almost immediately, but was kept in place by his captors pressing their blades against his back. Hjolmar stood and descended from his raised seat. When he was standing before the dwarf, he knelt in a showy manner to accentuate the captive’s height. He was still above eye-level.

          “This one looks educated.” Hjolmar said to no one in particular. He gestured to what little Khazalid remained on the bar’s signage that had yet to be defaced, and then gestured to his mouth. “Teach me.”

          The dwarf spat in his face.

          Hjolmar’s fist sent the dwarf tumbling back onto the floor. He hurried over to where he had landed and stomped on his captive’s exposed flank several times. When he was finished, possibly more out of the strain it put on his arm than his own satisfaction, the dwarf smiled at him through bloody teeth.

          “He has fire in his veins.” Kel said, as if offering something not plainly observable. “He would make a suitable sacrifice to The Four.”

          Hjolmar was silent for a long moment, wearing the look he always did while thinking. Eventually, he withdrew his foot from the dwarf’s cracked ribs and turned to face Olavi.

          “Leave his hands and face.” Hjolmar said tersely. “But make him willing to teach.”

          Olavi nodded contently and exited the room with the dwarf and his captors in tow, a mild spring in his step.

          Kel spoke as they left. “Hjolmar, remember what I have advised in regards to the culture of others. _Remember your uncle_.”

          With the expression Hjolmar wore at that, Joric wondered if he would try to kill the old man where he stood. But by the time he turned back to Kel, his face was neutral again. “The Dwarven tunnels are marked with their language, honoured Vitki. We must take every precaution to not meet our end lost in a lightless maze.”

          Kel nodded but said no more.

          “The Vitki and I have discussed my newfound leadership at length.” Hjolmar said suddenly, now addressing the wider room. “I will lead you all to a death more glorious than perhaps you could have even attained with your birth-tribes. But the slaughter is not all there is, and it is our right to reap the rewards of those who fail to grant us the death we deserve. And so tonight we shall have a feast in the name of the Gods that we journey to meet. Gather your cups and your meat and your spirits, my brothers. For tonight, more so than any other, we will drink deep of the cup of victory!”

…

The sun set could be seen through the cave mouth on one side of the cavern-city, bathing the geometric buildings in a fiery orange glow. Valka devoted her free time to practice fights against her kin, when she could find a volunteer, and Hjolmar was having yet another private meeting with the Vitki. Even in light of Kel’s comments earlier, Joric wondered if Hjolmar took the threat he posed seriously enough.

_No, he must_ , Joric thought to himself. _He remembers as well as I do his uncle’s rotting body_. _He remembers what I told him about his monstrous abilities._

“Joric.” The voice came suddenly from behind him.

Joric’s sword flashed out of its scabbard and was against Olavi’s neck in the time it took to blink.

“I’m getting tired of people sneaking up on me.” He said, pressing the blade close.

“Apologies.” He said insincerely, raising his empty hands in surrender. They were stained red. “But I have noticed your discontent over the past few days. You heeded my warning last time, and now I have more for you, if you will listen.”

Joric cursed under his breath, but lowered his blade. “Fine, but I expect some greater proof this time than hearsay and con… uhm.”

“Conjecture.” Olavi finished. “Yes, I believe I can offer you much more.”

Joric followed him to the building he had chosen as lodgings. It was in the corner of town, previously a butcher shop as far as Joric could tell. It smelled strongly of rotting meat, and bloated flies buzzed lazily in and out of the carved windows.

Olavi gestured to the central table, one of the few bits of furniture not carved from the stone as well. On the polished wooden surface was a book, bound from rough leather and worn by countless years of use. The pages were yellow and jagged, and the bindings were frayed. Its only identifying feature was an embossed character that looked like an “O” of the Lowlander alphabet, with a small “v” sitting at its crown. Joric found the simple marking strangely captivating.

Olavi adruptly pushed the book open and began leafing through the pages. The runes within were rough and archaic, but Joric could still make them out. He settled on a passage deep into the tome and tapped on it indicatively with his index finger.

Joric scanned the page, speaking each word aloud as he read. “To transfer one’s spirit to a new body, one must first acquire twelve… what is this supposed to be?”

“A ritual. This book was one of the select few Kel opted to take with him when embarking upon this journey. It is filled with many commentaries on the arcane, but this is the only ritual within. Why then, do you suppose he has it?”

Joric quickly realized he was being played with. “If you think I’m going to put up with your games again…”

“You will what? Walk away? We both know that is not true, Joric. You are already concerned, it is written clear across your face.”

Joric cursed himself for being so obvious. “Just say what you want to say.” He sounded defeated, even to himself.

Olavi took a moment to continue, clearly weighing his options. “Very well. I am sure you have figured out by now that Kel tries to puppet whoever is truly in charge. You encountered one such manner of doing so personally, did you not? But while he has power, he is still human. This,” He tapped his finger on the page again, “this helps him circumvent that weakness.”

“Ridiculous.” Joric said, not caring if he was playing into Olavi’s hands. “Only the Gods can bestow eternal life. Kel himself preaches it.”

“Kel claims to be an authority on the will of Khorne, despite Khorne’s hatred of sorcerers. He possesses books written in other languages, including Reikspiel, yet denounces any part of their culture. He is a hypocrite, Joric, and he cares only for his own power. We are nothing to him but livestock. I do not know why he had Hjolmar’s uncle killed, but I doubt it was because of relations with lowlanders.”

Joric tried to keep the conversation on course as best he could. “So, what? He wants to possess one of us? Live forever?”

“Ah, you see, Joric. You are not so stupid when you put in a little effort.” Joric ignored his insult. “I was wondering too why he contrived this voyage. But it seems obvious now, does it not? I have seen no finer a warrior than Hjolmar among our tribe, Kel saw that definitively when he put a sword through Tolb with barely a care. How fortunate for him that Hjolmar managed to disgrace himself mere moments later, the perfect opportunity to pull him away from his father, perhaps the only one who could have stopped him.”

Joric’s blade shot to the pale-eyed warrior’s throat again, and he was less careful this time. A small trail of blood ran down the blade from where the cutting edge met Olavi’s pale neck. “You must think I really am stupid, to buy that shit.” Joric was speaking very quietly, trying to keep himself from emptying Olavi’s blood across the hard stone floor. 

He raised his clammy hands placatingly once again. “Why else would he bring the book? Why else would he leave the tribe he puppeted with no effort? _Think_ , Joric.”

“You’ve been putting thoughts in my head and words in my mouth since we got here, you _Skaven_.” He pushed the sword just a little deeper, drawing further blood. He angled his blade, pressing into his neck without cutting to deep. Olavi started to wheeze through his constricted windpipe. His pale fingers seemed to stretch beyond any normal range of motion.

“If you don’t believe me… then do not tell him. But… you know he is trying to control you… just consider it… _please_.”

Something about that final word caused Joric to withdraw his blade. Olavi fell to the floor, wheezing and clutching his bleeding neck. It was the most genuine thing he had heard out of the man’s mouth since they had met. His voice was wracked with concern. Not simple desperation for oneself, but worry for others.

Joric looked down at him. “I’ll tell Hjolmar what you said, he’s a smarter man than I’ll ever be. But I’ll do no convincing for you. And if he finds some hole to your story that I can’t, I’ll give you tied and naked to the slaves.”

He spun on his heel and left, leaving Olavi alone and panting on the floor.

…

          “Are you sure?” Hjolmar asked as Joric fitted him into a set of repaired armor, jangling with chain and plating scavenged from the villages’ forges.

          “No, but I think it could be true. I figured that was enough to let you know.” Joric watched Hjolmar move his limbs deftly through the arm-holes with careful skill. The ritual had become rote by now, Hjolmar still unable to armour himself without use of both hands. “Though to be honest, with what we do know about Kel, I’m surprised you’re still giving him the time of day.”

          “His insight is useful, for now. Besides, he still has a great deal of respect from much of the crew. We can’t simply ignore him.”

          Joric was taken aback. “ _Insight_? Hjol, we know that he’s planning something. Why are you listening to anything he says at all?”

          “Because he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. Cape.” Joric fastened the flowing furs across his shoulders, making him look every bit like the leader he wanted to be. “It’s obvious that if nothing else he wants to control me like he did my father. But he has always been a wealth of knowledge for anyone willing to stroke his ego. We have talked at length about the path of The Blood God, and each meeting provides more insight than I could ever have expected.”

          “And what if he thinks the same of you? That you’re easy to fool and that a few well-placed praises will put you on the path he wants?”

          “No.” Hjolmar said, in a tone not unlike the one he had used with Sven the day prior. “No. But… maybe. You’re right, Joric. If there is any chance of being used, then I shouldn’t be stoking it. I had hoped to learn more from him, but perhaps the risk is too great.”

          “So… what? Do you have a plan?” Joric asked quizzically. He could tell Hjolmar was wrestling with the possibility that he had misread things. It was clearly eating at him.

          “Oh yes.” He said after a few minutes of contemplation. “Yes, I have a plan.”

…

          They assembled in what must have been some town meeting place, as it had a wide-open floor and a very high ceiling. It was probably the only suitable place for the feast, sans the retooled bar, as no one had to worry about bashing their heads against the ceilings.

          The spread was as impressive as they could manage with the meagre diversity in supplies. Barrels of ale and other more exotic liquors sat by nearly every Norsca present, and Sven had managed to prepare the vast stores of fish into a wide array of options. Joric was forced to admit that Sven may have had a better chance at gaining position if he had advertised his cooking skills instead.

          Kel was seated across the table, frequently whispering to Hjolmar but always finding time in between comments to leer at Joric. He had difficulty enjoying his meat or mead, Kel’s gaze inciting a fear and disgust that made his food taste rotten. Olavi was thankfully absent, no doubt off ripping chunks out of Hjolmar’s dwarf prisoner.

          After a time he gave up on his meal and turned to Valka, who was forgoing sectioning up her food in lieu of placing entire cuts of fish into her mouth. Her attention seemed firmly fixed on one of the boasting ex-brigands across the table.

          “Pink-eyes won’t stop staring at me.” He whispered to her. She grunted in acknowledgment but otherwise was unchanged. “What do I do?” He asked, semi-seriously.

          “Hm. Is he freezing you blood again?” She asked before reaching for another fillet.

          “Well, no.”

          “Then ignore him, you’re a big boy.”

          _So much for conversation_ , he thought. He wondered if Kel would antagonize him further for leaving his seat at a feast before the host’s speech had been given. Another stare from the Vitki advised him against such action.

          Hjolmar’s addressal came mercifully early into the evening.

          “My Warband.” He began, raising his tankard into the air, a gesture matched by all in attendance. “I have an announcement, but first I must give you all my thanks. I know I was a poor host when this journey began. I neglected you, and I admit I looked down upon on you. But my eyes have been opened, and I hope to get to know the lot of you better in the coming month of healing. You have accepted me into your fold so quickly! I am more than honoured to be your leader. Despite your camaraderie, however, I feel there is still a wedge between us, and between us all.” He gestured around the room, meeting the gaze of all in attendance before settling for a moment longer on Joric.

          “I have been listening to your tales, to the best of my ability this night. I have heard of Glenn’s conquest of the Spine-Crushers. I have heard of Mordbrand’s record of twenty-seven lowland villages raided in his youth. I have heard of Torsten’s exploits with the daughters of several chieftans.” He let the combined laughter subside before continuing. “But we are still separated, splintered. We look upon our current lot in life with shame. I hear ‘I was one of the Skull-Breakers,’ I hear ‘I was a proud Flesh-Crow!’ We are divided because we focus on what we were, instead of what we are. Well tonight I say no more.”

          He placed his tankard on the table before him and drew his freshly-polished sword from his scabbard, thrusting it towards the ceiling. “Tonight is not a night of the past. I name you the Ghosts of the North! Not in description, but in title, but in tribe! Cast aside these notions of a doomed crusade, we are death itself! This island has never seen our like, and they never shall again; for when we are done here the only dwarves remaining will be the slaves that man our ships as we sail to ravage another land!”

          Those surrounding the table all stood together, drawing their own weapons and waving them in the air. The cries of “ _Sword-Dancer_ ” came from every mouth, each in awe of their leader for returning their lives. All save Joric and Kel, who remained seated. Kel was hunched, and his claw-like fingers were squeezing his tankard so hard they had turned bone-white. Joric was simply watching, and hoping his friend hadn’t taken things too far.

 

**HJOLMAR**

         

 

“You idiot! You ignorant pup! I should have dashed your head against the rocks the day you were born you little shit!” Hjolmar had never heard Kel raise his voice before, much less scream in fury. The wispiness that normally plagued it vanished in a cacophony of gravel and baritone that reverberated across the walls of their isolated meeting-place. “Have you learned nothing? Were you not content to spit in the faces of the Gods only once?” he raised an accusing finger, his hands still shaking with rage.

          Hjolmar wore his best surprised face. He couldn’t push Kel too far, he didn’t know what the old man was capable of. Though, that was exactly what he aimed to discover. “But how are we to fight well if we’ve no hope of the future? If our purpose is to kill as many Lowlanders as we can, we need some level of pride.”

          “Your purpose is to die!” He roared, his hands straining into tight claws. “I had thought I could make you understand, to make you see. But you’re more of an idiot than your stubborn father!”

          Kel looked at him, then. Straight into his eyes with those black specs amidst a sea of entrail-pink. Hjolmar suddenly felt his limbs lock, like his frame was fighting against itself to the breaking point. His broken arm strained against its bindings, and he screamed through his bared teeth.

          “But I will make this simple, so your idiot brain can process. I am The God’s will made flesh. I am here to guide you all, and I will not be undermined.”

          Kel’s eyes almost seem to glow as Hjolmar felt a pull in his limbs. His knees buckled and he fell, kneeling, to the hard stone floor. His elbows met behind his back as his arms were wrenched as far as they would go. His neck strained as he was forced to keep staring into the Vitki’s face.

          “But you are well loved. It will be easier to herd them with you in the middle. So you will live, and tomorrow you will admit your own folly and _correct_ what you have said today. Do you understand?”

          Hjolmar felt some control return to his neck. He nodded.

          “Good.” Kel said. He stood up and retrieved his staff from the far wall, and all of Hjolmar’s strength returned at once. He dropped forwards, unable to move his cramped arms in time to stop his face from smashing into the floor. He convulsed for a moment as his body righted itself

          “And if you decide to disobey again, I can promise you a death far worse than a thousand broken limbs.”

          Kel left the barren hut, returning to his own dwelling. Hjolmar laid in the silence for a long while, his breath heavy against the nighttime silence. He could no longer keep the grin from his face, and he smiled wide.

          “I’ve got you now, you old bastard.”

…

          Olavi returned with the dwarf the next morning.

          “He is now willing to teach.” Olavi said, triumph shining through his near-expressionless face. The dwarf stood beside him, but constantly shifted feet like he was standing on hot coals. Bloody bandages covered his entire body, save for his hands and head. All the fire and defiance he had exhibited the day before had completely vanished, and he now exuded only a pitiful hatefulness.

          Hjolmar waved Olavi away dismissively, but if the young Norsca was upset by his lack of thanks he made no sign. Hjolmar appreciated his use as a tool, but had no patience for him otherwise. Even now, staring at the dwarf, he felt some disgust that he had ever given the order.

          Hjolmar spent the next month delivering on his promise by day, meeting with his crew and learning their histories and goals. He had done as Kel instructed, apologizing for his “foolishness” and rescinding the title he had granted the night of the feast. It had been obvious to all why he was making the statement, however, and it only succeeded in fostering resentment towards the Vitki. Hjolmar was happy to find several of the Warband use the moniker when not in public despite the condemnation. He even made time for some of the slaves, though between Sven’s few cronies and Olavi, their numbers were slowly diminishing.

          Night by night he would meet with the dwarf, who he discovered was named Duraz, learning of their language and culture. He learned of Mountainhearth, their greatest stronghold, of Grobi Rik, their king, and quite a bit of the _Kol_. He learned of the war with the elves and their Winged Lord, and of Hannesberg, the Imperial settlement to the island’s southwest. That in particular he found of great interest.

          Their lessons had gone on nearly twenty nights when his fighting spirit began to return. “The _Kol_ will crush you under their plated boots, even if you kill the rest of us.” He said, anger filling his voice, though he still twitched and looked at the floor like a frightened dog. “There have never been greater warriors to walk these lands.”

          Hjolmar leaned in close, making the dwarf wince. He spoke in his rapidly improving Khazalid, injecting it with all the pride he could manage.

          “Good.”

**JORIC**

         

 

They met in a secluded room of the town hall, one without windows and with a ceiling just high enough to avoid unwanted head injury. A large table was in its centre, and on it a roughly sketched map of the island with various locations named and described in runes. Hjolmar, Olavi, Kel, and Valka were also in attendance, and they began almost as soon as Joric arrived.

          “There hasn’t been a single retaliation against what we’ve done here for all twenty-eight days of our occupation.” Hjolmar said, emphasizing with a swing of his newly-healed arm. “Either the squats here are far more cowardly than on the mainland, or something more significant is currently on the way. The discussions I have had with our Dwarven guest make the second option seem significantly more likely.”

          Kel mashed the heel of his cane into the floor. “Do you not learn, Hjolmar? You trust the word of Lowlanders? This could very well be a ruse, a trick to keep us here longer so they may prepare their defenses.”

          “I mean no offense, Kel.” Olavi said, engaging Kel in what Joric could only describe as a strange-eyed staring contest. “But I have assured that Duraz will be quite unable to tell anything but the precise truth of what is asked. I vetted him quite thoroughly.”

          “Show respect, pup. You haven’t earned the familiarity.” Kel said grumbling, failing to respond to Olavi’s argument.

          “My point is, if a force is coming, it will be better to fight them here. We are more familiar with the area than anywhere else on Svarland, and can fortify if need be. The city gates are quite narrow, and if a large force arrives we can funnel them in.” Hjolmar attempted to pull attention back to his point at hand.

          “And if they don’t? Are we just going to sit here?” Valka’s arms were crossed in disapproval, her patience for inaction clearly at its end.

          “No, but if our goal is to kill as many lowlanders as possible, then we shouldn’t march blindly into the tunnels _they_ designed to kill outsiders.” Hjolmar kept an even tone, but Joric could tell he was already frustrated with the lack of agreement from any of his peers.

          “What of our prisoner?” Kel asked tersely. “You insisted on keeping the dwarf alive, why not use him now?”

          “The Dwarf has… joined his ancestors, I fear. Infection began to take him quite quickly. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.” Hjolmar said pensively. “We know we didn’t kill them all. There’s no way we could have, they know even the town itself better than we ever will. They _will_ come to us, and it is a matter of _when_ , not if.”

          “I must agree with Hjolmar,” Olavi began. “The Gods desire bodies, not honourable-“

          “How _dare_ you.” Kel said through gritted teeth, his eyes taking on a slight glow. “You are less studied than Hjolmar and you claim authority on the will of The Four? I should have you flayed like all of the slaves you waste on your indulgences!”

          “ _Have_ him flayed?” Hjolmar said quietly, though it silenced all others in the room. Joric swallowed in unease, he wondered how far Hjolmar could push the Vitki before he lashed out. “Do we not do our own dirty-work, Vitki? There is no value in what is done by the hands of another.”

          Silence hung in the meeting room. Before Kel could respond, Sven rushed through the low-hanging door and spoke aloud to the entire room, though his gaze was directed at Hjolmar. “My Jarl-”

          “My _Captain_ ,” Kel corrected, his voice growling with irritation.

          “Uh, yes, of course. A contingent of Dwarves is approaching town, twenty-one by the looks of it. They are all in metal battle-plate, and marching in military-formation.”

          Joric let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t know how much more posturing he could handle.

          The room was suddenly alive with movement, save Kel who remained rooted. Valka was out the door before Joric had even turned to see her leave; the rest simply grabbed their weapons and awaited orders.

          “Olavi, Sven, you’re with me, we will meet them with twenty-one of our own. Joric, below the old tavern is a tunnel leading outside the city, into an adjacent tunnel. I need you to lead the remaining warriors through there and behind the invaders once the battle begins; we will use the Squat’s own tricks against them.”

          Joric could scarcely believe what he had heard. “Uhm, Hjol, a moment?” He said quietly, though the room’s harsh acoustics did nothing to conceal his asking.

          Hjolmar looked confused by the request, but nodded after a moment and turned to the others. “Leave us, gather at the gate and wait for my arrival.”

          His peers obeyed immediately; Kel regarded them both suspiciously for a moment, but left soon after. When the room had emptied and they could hear the shouting of commands from outside, Joric began.

          “Hjol, my place is at your side. It has been since this whole mess began. Why are you taking them with you while I’m left to the second charge? Where’s the glory in mopping up scraps?”

          “Is that jealousy I hear Joric?” Hjolmar said with a lop-sided grin. When Joric didn’t respond, the smile faded from his lips.

“We’re in this together, Hjol. I sometimes worry you think I’m just some convenience to be enjoyed when you need me and pushed aside when you don’t. This role you’ve given me is not exactly reassuring.”

          Hjolmar’s visage of detachment faded to one of sadness, showing genuine regret over hurting his friend. He placed a placating hand on Joric’s shoulder. “Jor, I can’t trust Olavi or Sven to lead a third of our fighters, and Valka would be no leader at all. I need someone I can trust to do this, to be sure I am not undermined or usurped. I would have given this task to no one _but_ my second. I’m trying to make grand your glory, not stifle it.”

          Hjolmar was telling the truth, to be sure, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth. There was a pleading in his eyes that was uncharacteristic of a simple tactical need, but his words weren’t one of the many falsehoods he frequently wove for his other kinsmen. Joric decided to relent rather than press the issue.

          “Very well,” he said, somewhat deflated. “But you’d better leave some for us.”

          “Well, you’ll just have to be quick in joining us then, won’t you?” He said with a grin, attempting to mask his obvious relief with the snide comment.

         

 

**RAGARIN**

 

 

The one advantage of mobilizing out of _Mountainhearth_ with a small force was the relative speed at which it could be done. While there were many widened tunnels along the way to the far coast, most were not built to accommodate an army. Not since their unification had the dwarves fought anyone beyond the surface dwellers. It took only a few hours for the _Kol_ to do what could take upwards of a full day for an entire army, the frequent changes in width and height that would warrant large scale marching reorganization unneeded for such a troupe.

There were no greater celebrities than the _Kol_ , something Ragarin was reminded of with each town the travelled through. To have even one of Hror’s midnight-clad warriors visit ones’ village was cause for celebration, and while their mission was too urgent for any great feasts or parades, they stopped briefly to reassure the frightened locals, and to brighten their spirits in the face of whatever hardships presently beset them. If it were not clear before, it was especially so during the journey that Hror had more admiration and respect than Grobi ever would.

Ragarin could not shake his sour mood no matter how many fawning townsfolk sung their praises. They felt hollow and undeserved, a mockery of the _Kol_ ’s new purpose in the recent years. Some settlements sung the praises of Grobi as they came through, thankful for his swift and prestigious manner of dealing with the invaders. Ragarin bared his teeth in frustration behind his helmet, wondering when the people he strived to protect lost sight of who they were.

They spent their final night before arriving at Urbaz in its closest neighbour, Drez, a small but growing township founded only a hundred years prior, a reclamation from a band of goblins who had made the underground their home. As was normal on the eve of battle, they indulged the townsfolk here for the feast they insisted upon providing, though the spread was limited and their alcohol watered down.

…

The final approach to Urbaz was long, a well-carved tunnel with a vaulted ceiling and decorative pillars along the walls. The sconces that normally kept the path illuminated had long gone out, the routines of upkeep dying with their attendees. Only the soft glow of Urbaz’s gate-fires broke through the darkness, an orange smudge in the sea of blackness. They had barely begun their approach when the smell hit them, a putrid smog of rotting meat. It reminded Ragarin of the killing fields of the surface, and battles that persisted so long the dead began to putrefy in the damp weather.

As one, the Kol’s formation changed. No order needed to be given, or even a gestured command symbol. They knew their battle was upon them, and that the hallway’s lighting was no accident. Ragarin and Stevik took up Hror’s right and left respectively, with Zal leading the rear guard. This was one of the furthest settlements from _Mountainhearth_ , and the tunnels here were only superficially familiar.

Their pace slowed to a crawl as they became a multi-sided moving fortress, armor and weapons poised to strike out in any direction. Their heavy footfalls the only sound in the slowly brightening corridor as they inched towards Urbaz. It was less than a hundred metres from the gates when they stopped, and each forward facing warrior seemed to suffer an identical lapse in discipline, save for Hror himself. Ragarin’s weapon nearly slipped from his hands as he raised his helmet’s eye-slits up and around the once smooth stone wall, absorbing the horror before him.

The villages’ fortified walls were black with congealed blood, and those who had attempted to flee now lay rotting in a black sludge that mired the stony road. Makeshift hooks jutted from around the city gates, proudly displaying charred and disembowelled corpses of all ages and sexes. His gaze travelled higher to the eight-pointed star directly above Urbaz’s great fortified doorway, painted in the same rotted lifeblood of the lower walls. Ragarin was a soldier, and had seen numerous atrocities, be they at the hand of his own kind or the works of the Winged Lord. He had seen death. He had seen dismemberment. But he could do little from keeping his stomach from turning at this display. It was simply too calculatedly cruel, and he could tell no detail was by accident. That anyone could compose this mosaic of horror filled him with palpable disgust.

A war horn blared from within as they stood, the once mighty gates were pulled open. No sooner were they facing twenty-odd Norsca, in a perfectly matched formation to their own. Their leader looked rather out of place, as while the rest were bearded and shaggy-haired, he was bare of face with a well-kept golden mane flowing down his back and shoulders. Ragarin did not need to have seen many humans to identify the hubris written across his face. But while he was dressed in relatively clean, if over-ornamented leather armor, his comrades wore bulky furs and pelts, with the desiccated heads of their victims hanging from their belts.

The blonde one raised his hand and spoke. “Hail! I am glad to see a worthy challenge is finally sent. I is worried we would have to funnel crow-food through the gates, but your force size is a perfect match.”

His Khazalid was clumsy, despite his affecting eloquent speech, but Ragarin was surprised he had any grasp on the language at all. To his further surprise, Hror actually spoke in return.

“A savage from the north speaking our language.” Hror spoke quietly, clearly through gritted teeth even hidden beneath his war helm. Barely concealed rage dripped from his words, though Ragarin could pick out some small amusement at the fact that one of the enemy had bothered to learn their language. “You defile our lands, our kin, and even our Khazalid.” He stamped _Uzkul_ into the hard floor, the impact echoing through the long hallway. “I, Hror the Unyielding, vow that before this day ends, your blood will wet the earth on which you stand!”

Hror continued his speech for a time, which the Norsca’s leader seemed content to listen to. Ragarin tuned them out after a time, and instead used the calm before battle to evaluate his opponents. Each was enormous, even the small amongst their ranks at least twice the height of a dwarf. One in particular, the only other shaven warrior, was eying Ragarin strangely. His eyes bulged from his skull in a way that reminded him of a fish, and his mouth was a tight line across his pale face. His gaze did not wander to any of the other _Kol_ , clearly he wished Ragarin to be his opponent. Perhaps he had deduced that he was Hror’s second.

It scarcely mattered to Ragarin, they would slaughter them all anyway.

When Hror and the Norscan leader had finished, weapons were drawn on both sides. The _Kol_ waited, always an impenetrable wall for an enemy to be dashed upon. The Norsca had no such hesitation.

They yelled as one, a chorus of furious bellows, and charged into the iron wall that was the _Kol_. Ragarin raised his warhammer, a black-iron pole topped with a brutal maul, and refocused his defensive stance. He tuned out the roar of battle about him, and waited for the pale-eyed one to reach him.

But he alone did not charge. He approached warily, a thin sword held delicately in his pale hands. He seemed the smallest of the warriors, and clearly knew it, if his apparent caution was any indication. He was lithe, and even with his height was thinner than Ragarin.

“You are all doomed, you know.” He spoke in a shrill voice, and more jarringly, in flawless Khazalid.

“What?”

“Our master is called Hjolmar Sword-Dancer. There is no mightier warrior on this island. He will kill your Hror, and crush your filthy cities one by one.”

“Bluster.” Ragarin replied impatiently. In the flurry of violence surrounding them, only they stood still, each waiting for the other’s first strike. Ragarin had a vague conception of this Hjolmar and his battle with Hror, but did not dare take his attention off his opponent.

“He shall be the avatar of Khorne, the God of War. And I will be at his side, to bolster his slaughter, and bask in his glory. It is thanks to me that he will attain his greatest heights.”

Ragarin remained silent, finally taking a step forward. The fish-eyed warrior took a step back in perfect unison. _What was his strategy?_ Ragarin could tell his sword was too thin to deflect any strike. Was he expecting to kill him with a single blow?

“The Vitki holds him back. Kel would see him squander his talent, see him die for misplaced honour. He needs to be removed. It is good Joric is so very gullible.”

Ragarin did not understand who these people were, but the man’s meaning was clear.

“You manipulate your own leader? A coward’s tactic. And a weak leader.”

“No. No, you will understand. When your Hror’s skull is offered to Khorne, I too will be given favor. For my plan, my deception. It is necessary. It was needed for him to trust m-“

Ragarin swung before he could finish his sentence, a wide strike to keep distance and drive his opponent at length. The Norsca spun away, like a leaf dancing in the wind. His lanky form contorted easily out of the way of his strike, but he made no move to counterattack.

Ragarin pressed his assault, each strike flowing into the next. A ball of hard-iron adorned the heel of the hammer’s shaft, ensuring both ends could deliver a lethal strike. Swing after swing met only the air, with his opponent twisting and bending in ways more reminiscent and elf than any human Ragarin had ever seen.

_He’s trying to tire me out_ , Ragarin thought, several minutes into his unceasing flurry. He could fight for well over a day, he had done it before, but only now at the start of things would he be at his best. On his next swing, he hesitated for just a moment. He needed to lure his opponent in, and was prepared to snap back in an instant.

But the Norsca was fast, almost impossibly so. Before Ragarin had even begun to pull the killing-head of his hammer back towards his foe, the warrior plunged his thin sword through Ragarin’s eye-slit. He barely knew what had happened before it slipped through his helmet.

Against any other foe, it would have been the perfect strike. A blindingly fast execution, he doubted even Hror had the reflexes to completely negate the blow. The sides of the blade scarcely brushed the edges of his helm as it passed cleanly into Ragarin’s skull. But the second of the _Kol_ had a boon, one invisible beneath his helmet. For the first time since it had been pressed into his skull, he was thankful for his iron eye.

The sword was frighteningly sharp, and still penetrated some way through the metal ornamentation. He felt its horrible sting as it cut into what was left of his shrivelled eye, and embedded itself part-way into his skull. But then it moved no further, and the thin metal snapped near the hilt, leaving an inch at most in the warrior’s hand.

Surprise spread across the pale man’s face, a signal Ragarin would not squander. He swung his hammer low, smashing the Norsca’s legs out from under him. A loud crack signalled broken bones as he flipped onto his back. The man did not cry out, or even grunt as he hit the ground.

Ragarin dropped his hammer and leapt onto the downed Norsca, his plate armor’s weight cracking the man’s ribs as he fell on him. He tore the severed blade from his helm, and felt the broken base of the man’s sword puncture his side, a flawless strike between the seams of his armor, and a desperate attempt to shake him off. He grunted in pain, but would give no quarter.

He planted the severed blade into the man’s chest, his leather armor offering no resistance to the fine edge. His eyes widened, and the sword-hilt fell from his trembling hands. Blood welled from the wound in his chest.

“But… I…”

And then he was dead.

Ragarin tumbled off of the corpse, the sting of his wounds even more intense than when they were inflected. The dead Norsca’s blade was a cruel weapon, one designed for pain as well as murder. Ragarin got to his feet, and searched the battlefield for his master. The dead littered the surrounding area, but Ragarin was relieved to see far more dead Norsca than _Kol_. Hror was still locked in battle with their golden-haired leader, but clearly had the upper hand. The warrior’s skill was impressive, but like his dead companion, valued speed over strength. Hror’s plate armor was some of the finest ever fashioned, and the Norsca Hjolmar’s strikes, skilled as they were, slid harmlessly off Hror’s impenetrable shell.

For a moment, it seemed they would win. How foolish, they had been.

Another horn blared, this one far closer. The _Kol_ who had defeated their opponents looked back up the long hallway to where the sound emanated, and all heard the coming roar of a charging hoard.

_Those bastards_.

Ragarin began to shout a warning and lunged forward, desperate to reach his master. He was halfway there before he felt the armor in his left arm buckle and cave, his own plate forming a blade that cut into the muscle beneath. He spun sideways from the blow, struggling to regain his balance and keep hold of his weapon. He turned to his new opponent, a monstrous woman with reddish-blonde hair hanging haphazard over her deeply scarred face. Her armor was torn and caked with blood, and most of her bared arms ran red with the same. A fresh gash cut into her face bled into her mouth and down her neck, flecks of crimson saliva sputtering from her gritted teeth with each breath. In her right hand was a similarly large axe, chipped and worn but still glimmering in the orange glow of the city gates. In her left was Stevik’s head, his features slack and what was left of his spine trailing along the floor beneath a jagged neck wound.

Something broke in Ragarin then. He had been right. They were sent to their deaths, to die unseen to these monsters from the north. He felt no sorrow for his fallen friend, only impotent rage that he had let this happen. He roared as he charged, bracing the weight of his hammer with his damaged but still tactile left arm. The Norsca dropped her prize and returned the snarl, and Ragarin could see that there was no satisfaction or intelligence in her gaze. She was an animal out for blood, and Ragarin cursed himself even more for his final charge to be against such an inglorious foe.

He brought his hammerhead up into her exposed flank as she swung, the meagre leather armor crumpling beneath his blow. Whatever he managed to break inside her did nothing to slow the warrior down, and she brought her axehead down onto his shoulder with such force that the handle splintered and the plate exploded into obsidian shards. He watched as they seemed to hang in the air for just a moment, before another snarl signalled the Norsca’s next attack. She pushed the back of his helmet forwards and into her knee, crumpling the front of his helm and pulping his nose. With a roar, she kicked him with the force of what felt like a cannon, sending him careening several feet and into the far wall. Bones snapped and limbs shattered as he hit the hard surface, the pain compounding as he fell roughly onto the equally unforgiving floor.

He looked up, expecting to see the coming death-blow, but the Norsca had already lost interest, and had set upon another of Ragarin’s comrades.

He was now going unnoticed, presumably thought dead by those around him. He cocked his head, his body barely responding.

The charging warriors overwhelmed his brothers, hacking and bludgeoning Mountainhearth’s finest. Four had joined Hjolmar in attacking Hror, including the leader of the second charge.

It was in that moment Ragarin saw the true terror that was his master. Even one against five, his movements were the perfect blend of grace and savagery. Blows seemed to glance off him, unparried but failing to find any vulnerability or purchase. All the while he delivered crippling strikes with every swing of his hammer, beautiful in their precision. He was an unmatched avatar of war, his skill at arms the apex of what a mortal could achieve.

And he was losing.

A blade had found a gap in his armor. He turned, wrenching the sword from the warrior’s grip and smashing his skull into a bloody pulp with the accompanying swing. A mace crushed his left leg, the momentum from the blow used to dodge a strike for his head and deliver a lethal hammer blow to another Norsca’s ribcage. No warrior could have fought better. But still he was losing.

Finally, he dropped to his knees, his limbs mangled beyond repair. Around him lay three slain warriors, one dead for every blow he had survived. His helmet had been torn from his head, and blood gushed from a deep gouge in his face. Hjolmar raised his sword-two handed, and spoke in his clumsy Khazalid.

“I will remember you, Hror the Unyielding.”

One swing cleaved his master’s head from his neck.

Ragarin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He wanted to charge, to fight and die as his lord had, to avenge his death in a glorious suicide charge. But he couldn’t move, he was trapped in a useless shell as his brothers died around him. They fell one by one, their deaths rendered before him in agonizing detail. He saw Zal, five blades protruding from his chest, fall to the floor. He made no sound as he landed.

Ragarin felt the blackness approaching. He tried to resist, but with every passing moment he slid further from himself.

As the world darkened, his ears woke again for the Norsca and their raucous chant.

“Hjolmar! Hjolmar! Hjolmar!”

 

 

**HJOLMAR**

 

 

Hjolmar smiled. It was not the feral, savage grin of combat, but a genuine expression of glee. He was no longer wary of the praise, for he knew now that it was not some fabrication of his rivals.

Olavi was dead, killed by his own cruel sword. Whatever his scheme had been, it didn’t matter any longer. Kel was distant, for now, and his hold on the Ghosts would no doubt slip further after this.

He looked into his Warband, at the faces of his warriors. There was savagery there, and excitement. There was trust too, and the expectation of glories further ahead. Hjolmar planned to deliver those in earnest. He could feel his ambition burn like the sun, triumph dominated his thoughts. _I will have more_ , he thought, _more than any Norsca has ever had_. _The crowd cheering my name will extend to the horizon, and the world will remember the name Hjolmar Vorkjal._

He held up Hror’s head, forgoing the usual speech. They had killed the finest warriors Svarland had to offer, the triumph spoke for itself. He watched them chant his name, imagining his sea of adoration stretching far and away.

…

Kel was waiting for them, when they returned. Hjolmar lowered Joric to the ground, a glancing blow from Hror’s final swings nearly crippling him. He held up the Dwarf’s severed head before him. "Our captive assured me he was the greatest challenge Svarland had to offer." He tossed the head towards Kel, and it landed on the smooth floor and rolled to his feet, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. Kel said nothing.

Hjolmar turned to the Ghosts. He took note of Joric focusing his attention firmly on the ground. "We've won a great victory today, and the lost could have met no more worthy an end. Our brotherhood has bound us into a force invincible!” More cheers followed.

“But near a month ago, the Vitki spoke to me, and told me that we did not deserve this honour. He said we must never forget we are dead men, and that our only goal should be death. Well I say no to that!" Silence met his words, and he was almost worried that he had somehow misspoken, but he soon realized they weren't moving at all. No, that was untrue, there was a slight shudder in all of them, and the sheen of sweat was already visible across their exposed skin.

"Hjolmar." Kel said in almost a whisper. Everything had gone uncannily silent.

He flexed his hands just to confirm that his hunch had been correct. "If your disagreement is with me, then why punish us all?" He asked pointedly. "If you're so convinced of your own authority, why worry about what the Ghosts will do?"

"Insolent..." Kel was muttering, struggling to contain his own outburst. "Arrogant... stupid... disgraceful." He was suddenly shouting, his booming voice returning. "You have spat in the eyes of The Four, and now you will see the infinite hells they have prepared for your like! You disgrace Khorne through your cowardly duplicity, and it is by his hand that you will be made an example of!"

…

"It's his eyes."

Hjolmar had Joric's arm over his shoulder, helping him stand and return to inner _Urbaz_. His ribs were broken in several places, and his left shin seemed to have met the same fate. Hjolmar himself was largely unharmed, none of the Warlord’s strikes achieving more than broken armor.

"That's how he paralyzes, it requires eye-contact. When we get back to the village, keep your eyes on the floor." He told Joric quietly, looking around to see if any were listening in.

"And why aren't you telling everyone this?" Joric asked, hampered by his injuries but still louder than Hjolmar would have liked.

"They don't know Kel like we do. If we don't let him make the first move, they might turn on me. Besides, it will be difficult to kill him with thirty people who can’t look in his general direction. We'll die more to our own swords than whatever sorceries he can conjure."

Joric didn't respond, and simply walked the rest of the journey in silence. Hjolmar knew he disagreed, but he trusted him all the same. That was all he needed.

…

 

Hjolmar saw a red light illuminate the faces of his motionless brethren, and what sounded like a shrieking tidal wave sounded from behind him. He heard a chorus of roars, filled with anguish and fury, warped like the fruitless cries of drowning men. He looked down at Joric, whose gaze had risen from his feet and stared wide eyed at whatever was before him. He gave Hjolmar the briefest glance, if only to signal that he was still mobile.

Hjolmar turned and saw a tear into madness, twisting red and colours of gore bleeding from a wound in the world. Kel's eyes had rolled back in his head, and he spouted syllables that hurt Hjolmar's ears and sounded more like the severing of limbs than verbal language. The air swelled around the hole in the world like a rising wave, and a monstrous fetus spilled forth, coated in an afterbirth of acid blood and screams.

The thing throbbed and flailed on the stony floor, steam rising from its glowing-hot flesh. Muscle upon muscle pushed out and formed extremities, grossly disproportioned and redundant physique that failed to resemble anything from Kel's books on anatomy. Obsidian-black claws cut through the skin, molten blood congealing into further flesh. A black-iron collar burst through the creature's spine, clamping tight around its bulbous neck and inciting a deafening wail from the beast’s misaligned jaws. It gnashed its dagger-teeth and raged against the ground with titanic paws, and stared unknowingly into the world it should never have been a part of through tiny black orbs.

It was a Hound of Khorne, a servant of the Blood God that knew only it's master's depthless hate and savagery.

Kel's eyes regained their focus. "Behold, a fitting death for-" His posturing was cut short when the creature rounded on him, twisting impossibly fast and contorting as if no bones held the creature into proper shape. The hound’s monstrous jaws snapped into Kel's trunk and hoisted him into the air. The creature whipped its oversized head back and forth like a hungry wolf thrashing its prey. Blood spray coated the street in a wide arc, and one of Kel's arms flew severed into a nearby wall with a wet smack. The creature finally relinquished its hold on the Vitki, flinging him into the nearest curb. He landed with a loud crunch and then was still, and made no sound.

Every Norsca child was told of the Blood God's intense hatred of sorcerers, often for the purpose of finding a sacrifice that would most please him. It must have taken peerless arrogance to assume that by merely singing Khorne's praises, one would be exempt from his ire.

The beast roared again and smashed at the ground with its monstrous claws before turning its attention to Hjolmar. The creature hurt to look at, as if it were just slightly out of focus. But despite the horror before him, Hjolmar's most prominent emotion was not crippling fear, but a horrible sense of deja-vu.

No, he had a sword this time. As if that could close the gap.

The creature barfed strings of acid spittle before charging at him, pained and furious snarls escaping its gaping maw with each bound towards him. He jumped sideways at the last moment, pushing his sword outwards to take advantage of the creatures lumbering momentum. Obeying no law of motion, the beast stopped immediately, and once again contorted impossibly to lash out at him. He threw himself backwards, too frantically to keep his footing, and saw the hound's claws cut through his armor as if it were warm mead, molten bits scattering and fizzling on the cold stone.

He had barely begun to roll aside when the beast was on top of him again. He shoved the blade through the creatures' jaw, through where any dog's brain would be. Several uneven teeth punched into his forearm, making his flesh bubble and steam. The creature pulled away, wincing in pain but otherwise seemingly unhindered.

_Wonderful_ , Hjolmar thought as he gripped his arm, this time feeling as though literal fire were flowing through his veins. He flexed his fingers, each movement searing stronger. But he could still move, pain or not. Another roar from the beast bid him look, half expecting to see his death baring down on top of him.

The hellhound mashed its feat against the ground again, roaring in frustration. It made a few pitiful claws at its mouth, fruitlessly attempting to dislodge the sword embedded in its skull. Hjolmar knew he wouldn’t get another chance, if this could be called a chance at all. If the creature pressed its attack again, it was only a matter of time before he joined Kel in the dirt. Hjolmar couldn’t let that happen.

He charged, back and around, and leapt onto the creature’s back. He grabbed at its red-hot flesh, mere contact scorching the skin of his hands and searing his boots. The hound’s flesh was like mud, and it slopped and gave like no living creature should. The beast took note of his presence, and lashed and flailed and bent in an attempt to throw him off. Hjolmar lunged forward and grabbed onto the iron collar about its neck, the only obvious anchor point on the creature.

He wrapped his fingers around the hot iron, spiked bolts piercing tearing into his skin, and superheated metal making his mortal flesh steam and bubble. But there was something welcoming about the pain, and it only made him persevere, not recoil. It filled him with hatred, with maddening determination to kill what now pained him so. _This must be what the berserker rage is like_ , he thought. _The kill is all there is._

He planted his feet as best he could, digging his heels into molten flesh, and pulled.

 

**JORIC**

         

 

_He needs help_ , Joric thought, looking around at his fellow Norsca. They were as statues, still frozen in the positions they had arrived in. _If they’re still like this then…_

          He looked over at Kel’s shattered form. _He’s alive_.

          He began to crawl. Every movement was agony, pain emanated from his points of injury like an overflowing river, his clumsy movements exacerbating the sensation.

          He felt woefully slow, the battle on his periphery progressing so quickly that he feared that even a full sprint to the Vitki may have been inadequate. _No, don’t think about failure. Think about what you have to do!_

          He heard the hellhound roar as Hjolmar leapt onto its back, and struggled for purchase. He heard an audible sizzle as his flesh met the beast’s iron collar, but still he carried on. He was barely upon the Vitki when he heard a final, choked wail from the creature. He turned, no longer able to curtail his curiosity.

          Hjolmar wrenched back, veins and muscles bulging from his arms as he pulled with all his might against the beast’s metal collar, the harsh iron crushing and cutting the warp-thing’s bulbous neck. It gnashed its teeth ineffectually, acid spittle raining from its quivering jaws. Hjolmar’s teeth were bared, and he looked more feral than Joric had ever seen him. The beast seemed to expire, its final noxious breath coming in a slow sigh, but still Hjolmar pulled. A hideous crunching noise accompanied the dissolving of the Hellhound’s form in tandem with a final heave, slicing the beast’s head from its body. Its form gave way even as it fell, dissolving and bubbling into the same nothingness it had spawned from.

          Joric couldn’t believe it. Hjolmar had killed the beast with his bare hands, his fingers black and steaming. He regarded the collar, the only thing that had not faded back into the immaterium upon the creature’s death. He looked at Joric, dishevelled and obviously in the same state of silent disbelief.

          The calm was short-lived. Psychic fire grew from the bottom of the iron ring, unnatural flames climbing up and around Hjolmar’s prize. It flew out of his hands and into the air, and broke apart into several smaller pieces, curves and spikes of the daemonic metal forming a floating halo about the blonde warrior’s head. No sooner did they become missiles, flying onto his skull and combining into a ring of iron across his brow, the spikes digging into his flesh and bone. He fell backwards, screaming and clawing fruitlessly at the metal band as blood gushed down his contorted face.

          Joric turned to Kel, and his eyes again glowing with the power of the warp. Joric grunted as he launched himself off of his one good leg, landing on top of the crippled seer. His lips moved with some unheard chant, and Joric shook his collar until his gross, infected eyes regained their focus.

          “Stop! Stop this now or I promise you a death more horrible than even Olavi could think up!” Joric was shaking in his fury, he could barely keep himself from beating the Vitki’s broken face into a mass of red slop.

          He laughed through broken teeth, a pathetic wheeze that came in short, pained bursts. “The spell is already cast… an Iron Crown, fashioned special… fitting, don’t you think…?” He coughed violently, blood flecks landing across his near-white beard. “It cannot be undone… and I am already dead… heh… heh… You have nothing to threaten... me with… boy!” A smile spread across his thin lips, baring his bloodied gums and few remaining teeth.

          Joric’s face twisted into a combination of horror and fury. He leaned in close to the dying man, teeth bared into a rictus. “Good, then I don’t need to kill you quickly.” He grabbed the sides of Kel’s head with trembling hands, and pushed his thumbs hard into the eyes that had haunted him for the past month. Kel screamed as the appendages speared and crushed, sending streams of pink fluid flowing down his cheeks.

          Joric took immense joy in holding him there, the seer’s form too broken to fight back in any capacity. Joric lost himself to his rage for a time, unthinking except for revelling in the pain of the sorcerer. He didn’t know how much time had passed before Kel’s screams finally died in his throat, his body a seeping ruin.

          He rolled sideways, breathing heavily. His arms were caked with blood and gore, which he regarded passively for a time. He was pulled from his revelling when he heard the Ghosts regaining their movement, one by one falling to the floor, gasping for air. He turned and looked at Hjolmar, who lay in a pool of the blood seeping from where the Iron Crown was bolted into his skull.

          It didn’t process that his best friend was dead. He couldn’t imagine it, and refused to believe it even as he stared at Hjolmar’s body. He began to crawl again, faster than even before, the pain in his body lost under a filter of disbelief. He was not the first one there, Valka sprinting from her standing place and attempting to stifle the blood flow from Hjolmar’s skull.

          When Joric finally reached him, most all of the Ghosts had gathered around their fallen leader. He crawled between them, not caring for how odd he must have looked. Valka looked up at him as he broke through the line of warriors, more concern etched across her bloodied features than Joric had ever seen her wear.

          “Hjol…” Joric said, his sadness finally starting to ebb through his red haze.

          As if summoned, Hjolmar’s eyes flew open, blood-shot and manic. He screamed, not of pain, but of fear and confusion. He stumbled out of Valka’s arms flailing wildly at those about him.

          “Hjol!” Joric roared, pulling himself up by a nearby warrior’s jerkin and pushing himself onto his friend. He attempted to steady him, looking into his confused eyes and holding him still as best he could.

          “Hjol! It’s Joric! It’s alright! Calm down!”

          He calmed slowly, first moving from his cries to a hurried pant. His eyes were the last to regain their focus, and intelligence finally shone again through his blood-stained face. But the fear remained, crippling and all-consuming.

          “I saw it… the other side…” He said, in a whisper only Joric could make out.

          “I saw hell.”


End file.
